


All We've Got is Time

by classicallybookish



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Anxiety, F/M, Fluff, If they'd survived AU, Mild Angst, Moving On, PTSD, Post-War, Reader Insert, Recovery, Romance, Sexual Assault, Typist!Reader, Window Washer!Bucky Barnes, cursing, i just want everyone to be happy, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-02-23 19:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 58,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18708409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classicallybookish/pseuds/classicallybookish
Summary: In a world where Bucky never falls off a train and Steve lives after crashing the plane, Bucky is trying to adjust to a new peace-time normal. Spring 1946, Reader starts a brand new typist position in one of the many New York office buildings after being displaced from her factory job once the war ended. An unconventional friendship starts which leads to all the romance and fluff.





	1. The First Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader has her first day as a Typist in a New York skyscraper when someone unique falls into her life.

Fiddling with the sleeves of your new blouse, you wait for the elevator to reach the sixth floor. You hate yourself for fidgeting but you can’t help it today. This new position is a step up for you, making a good first impression is important. If this doesn’t work out, you don’t know what you’re going to do.

 

As the doors slide open, you check the waistband of your wide-legged pants once more before approaching the front desk. Seated on a high stool behind the desk is a woman who you would describe as the epitome of prim and proper. Her dark dress buttoned up to her neck, lapels ironed, her hair pulled tight with every strand in place. Behind her are rows and rows of desks, young women flitting around the office, running to offices that line the edge of the bullpen.

 

“May I help you?” she inquires, her voice stiff.

 

With a nervous nod you say, “Yes, ma’am. It’s my first day. I’m Paul Anderson’s new typist?”

 

She hums and flips through a bound book on her desk. “Yes, I see that. I am Miriam Flannery, Office Manager. I oversee every typist and secretary here. Allow me to show you the office before you get started.” Rising, Flannery walks - more like stalks - through the bullpen, doling information out to you in a monotone voice.

 

The entire eastern wall is covered in windows, bathing the office in gorgeous natural light. At least you weren’t going to be stuck under fluorescent lights in a cave somewhere. That New York City view could cheer anyone up. You had only been here for a few weeks, but the familiarity of the skyline steadies you a bit. Slowly you tune back in to Flannery’s monologue.

 

“. . they will process your initial paperwork. Here is the mailroom, where you can also retrieve supplies. Next to it is the breakroom, there is coffee and a refrigerator to store your lunch. Here is the filing room, where we store paperwork for all of the corporate offices. Later on, one of the other girls will show you filing protocol.” You barely had a chance to see anything as Mrs. Flannery waved her hands in general directions, keeping a swift pace.

 

She stops at a desk directly next a window, an office door a few paces off. “This is your desk. You have been provided with a top-of-the-line, brand new Remington Rand typewriter. Please take care of it, the replacement process is not enjoyable.” Flannery turns around sharply, eyeing you from behind thick-framed glasses. “Now a few of MY ground rules.”

 

She holds a finger up, “One: This is a place of business. I expect you to handle yourself with class and decorum at every moment of the day. Vulgarity is frowned upon.” Two fingers are held up, “Two: Punctuality is a necessity in our business. We start on the dot and expect everyone in the office to subscribe to this practice.” A third finger joins, “Three: Personal visitors are prohibited. As I said, this is an office, not a lovers’ lane. Finally: If you do your work and do it well we will not have any issues. Understood?” Though feeling slightly dazed, you nod which seems to satisfy the office manager. “If you have questions, I will be in the reception area.” The tall woman marches back to the front desk, not leaving any room for said questions.

 

Before you even have a chance to set your handbag down, a short, balding man emerges from the office immediately adjacent to your desk. “Hey there, Betty right?” You politely correct him, honestly believing he was mistaken. “Ah, I get women’s names mixed up all the time. I see long hair and painted face and it all blends together. I’m Paul. Come on in, let’s go over your job duties.”

 

Ignoring the irritation in your gut you follow him into the smoky office, doing your best to suppress a cough. The space is an obvious homage to Anderson’s glory days. Old sports memorabilia takes up an entire wall, next to which are several framed certificates and plaques. Someone liked for people to be aware of his success. Always a great sign in a superior, right?

 

You sit in one of the uncomfortable leather chairs in front of his desk while Anderson settles in behind it. After exchanging pleasantries about commutes and weather, he delivers a well-practiced speech about the company, their goals for the fiscal year and quarter, etc. Information you’re already aware of, but must politely nod to as if it was all new.

 

“The job is pretty simple,” Anderson continues. “Sit in on any meetings I have and take notes. Transcribe letters I dictate to you. Monitor my correspondence. Now, make sure everything is perfect. I get a lot of mail so I expect you to read through everything and let me know when I need to respond. I’ve been told you’re a firecracker, but try to tone that down here. Things are easier on everyone if you keep your thoughts to yourself and do the work. What else is there. . . oh, in my experience, women just make coffee better than us men, so I may ask you to do that from time to time. I think that about covers it. Sometimes things pop up, but I trust you’ll be flexible, yeah?”

 

“I will do my best, sir.”

 

“Alrighty!” Anderson stands from his chair, buttoning his jacket. “It’s been nice to meet ya, Ruth. I feel like we’re gonna work well together,” he reaches out for a handshake which you return firmly. Possibly a little too firmly.

 

“Not Ruth,” you remind him. “But I sure hope so.” You move to leave when Anderson stops you.

 

“Just a little tip for ya? Try to look more like a lady, sweet-cheeks. Spend your first week’s pay on some new dresses,” your boss adds as he leads you out of his office. Hot blood blazes through your veins and it takes everything in you to give your boss a tight-lipped smile and nod. No matter how much you want to shove all the papers off of his desk and tell him to go to hell, you know this job was too vital. You had to keep in mind that you were lucky to be here at all.

 

He closes his door and you sigh, wondering what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into. The clicking of heels alerts you to yet someone else approaching you. Although this sight was far friendlier than the last two. Her fiery red hair was coiffed perfectly in the latest style and her eyes were bright green and warm. She props a hip against your desk, leaning in with a smile.

 

“You working for Anderson?”

 

“Sure am.”

 

“I’m Suzy, I sit right over there,” she gestures to a desk not too far from your own.

 

You introduce yourself, exchanging a small handshake. “Nice to meet you, Suzy.”

 

“Word to the wise, he’ll never get your name right no matter how many times you tell him. He just picks a common one and moves on. He knows you’re a typist, but he’ll still ask you to make him coffee, he likes it black in the biggest cup you can find,” Suzy takes in a deep breath, “Everyday at 2:30 he has a phone call with his mistress, so don’t go into his office until 3:15 unless you wanna reason to gouge your eardrums. On Fridays his wife makes him the worst smelling casserole in the world for lunch, so steer clear of him or he’ll try to make you take it. ”

 

All you manage is a blink. “Did you. . . work for him at some point?”

 

“Thankfully no, but I’ve watched him fire four typists in the last three months. It’d be nice to have someone stick around for a while.”

 

_That’s encouraging._

 

“But don’t worry,” she lays a gentle hand on your arm. “If you follow Flannery’s rules, do what Anderson asks, and keep your head down you’ll be fine. Flannery’s a fuddy-duddy, but she’s fair for the most part. I’ve been working here the longest out of any of the girls here, so holler if you need anything. I’ll let ya get settled in.”

 

The moment Suzy walks away, Anderson pokes his head out, needing you to take notes during a phone call that had just come in. You scurry in with a pad and pencil and furiously take notes of the hour-long phone call. Anderson tasks you with typing up the notes and dealing with information that needs to be forwarded to other retailers and suppliers. Before you know it, it’s lunchtime and the office slowly began to quiet as everyone took their breaks. You hear the chatter of several women in the break-room but you can’t tackle social hour today. From the moment you had stepped in the door you were overwhelmed with massive amounts of information and your brain had almost reached its capacity for processing.

 

As soon as Anderson leaves his office to attend lunch, you lay your head against the desk, inhaling deeply, hoping to calm yourself. The pile of notes you had taken during your first meeting mocks you, begs to be organized and typed - you know the more time that passes since the meeting, the more confused you’ll be by your own shorthand. You ghost your hands over the nicest typewriter you’ve ever seen, admiring the shiny keys and smooth roll. You insert a sheet of paper and roll it to the correct indentation.

 

You poise your hands above the keys to begin typing when a dark figure falls outside the window nearest your desk. You let out a small cry, thinking someone must have jumped from the rooftop and was plummeting to the sidewalk below. Leaping from your chair you press your face to the glass, trying to find whomever had jumped. Much to your surprise he was right beneath your windowsill, holding on to the ledge tightly. He was yelling at someone above him, though his words were lost through the thick glass. Though you could imagine the colorful language you’d be using in a similar situation.

 

Briefly he struggles to gain a foothold against the brick below him, his feet slipping every so often which threatens to take ten years off of your life. Oddly enough, he maintains a cool temperament the whole time, face blank of emotion, fear seemingly nonexistent. Finally he seems stable enough to release one hand from the ledge, reaching down to grab a leather strap dangling from his harness you hadn’t noticed before. Seconds later, the strap is anchored to a rod next to the window. Now that he seems to be out of danger for the time being, you notice an identical leather strap attached to the opposite side of the window - and then the pieces fall into place. Someone had been careless with the window-washer rigging and this man had nearly paid dearly for it. He looks up again, catching sight of you still pressed against the glass, eyes wide with worry.

 

Then this man has the audacity to smile at you? Like he hadn’t just about plummeted at least ten stories to his death? Crystal blue eyes peer up at you beneath dark loose locks of hair hanging over his forehead. Then he gives you a thumbs up - you’re guessing to let you know he’s okay - and he rappels down to the ground floor of the building. And as mysteriously as he drops into your life, he’s gone. You glance around the office, still completely alone.

 

_Well. . . what a first day._


	2. The Window Washer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cute through-the-window interactions with a handsome window washer.

The remainder of your first day passes fairly quickly between entry paperwork and an endless list of demands from your new boss. Currently he’s provided you with a mountain of letters he had clumsily typed in the time he’d been without a typist. You have the happy task of proofreading and retyping before the correspondence is mailed. The page in front of you is covered in red pencil-marks, denoting how desperately Anderson needed a typist.

Mid-circle, a fellow typist interrupts you to introduce herself and welcome you to the office. She’s bubbly and talks a hundred miles an hour, but she’s kind. The chances are low that you’ll remember her name after the day you’ve had, but you try to be as cheerful and friendly as possible.

 _Alright, back to paperwork. Blah blah blah, ‘looking for a person with experience amf charisma’-wait, that should be ‘and’, lemme circle that-_ Your hand ghosts over your desk where you last remember dropping your pencil.  _Where did it- under these papers maybe? No. On the floor… where the hell did it go, that’s the only red pencil I’ve got. God, this day needs to be over because I’m about to lose my mind. I-_

A rapid tapping about makes you jump out of your skin. You hear the tap several more times, swiveling your head around the office. It isn’t until you turn to the window that you find what - or more accurately, who - is making the noise.

A window washer right outside the window - the same man who’s near-death you’d experienced this morning. He’s smiling kindly and-  _What is he doing?_

Even though every hair is in place, he’s acting like he’s brushing a piece behind is ear. He lets out an amused huff at what you assume is your thoroughly confused expression. A finger points at you, then repeats the action.

_Is my hair doing something crazy? This is embarrassing. I don’t feel anything out of plac- Oh._

You pull the missing pencil from behind your ear, having no memory of putting it there in the first place. A deep sigh leaves you, tension from the first day trying to find some relief.

“Thank you,” you mouth. He nods in response which you take to mean  _You’re welcome._

He holds up his pointer finger and quirks an eyebrow. You nod. “First day, yeah.”

He takes an exaggerated breath in, holds it, and releases it.

You laugh quietly to yourself.  _Yeah, I do need to breathe._

“Good luck,” he says silently. You nod again and share in a smile before someone calling your name takes your attention away from the window.

As the days go by, you find yourself settling into your new role. It’s an adjustment from your previous position, that you can’t deny. But there are still methodical steps to follow and the clacking of your typewriter’s keys always soothes your frayed nerves. An unexpected addition to your job has been seeing Mr. Barely-Alive Window Washer. Every day he drops down from above to wash a window on your floor.

From what you can tell from his pattern, he starts on the highest floor and rappels down to wash each window below in that column until he reaches the ground. The next day, he starts one column of windows over and descends again. Which means he came to clean one of your giant windows once a day when he was on your side of the building. And it was typically right after lunch, usually when you move from typing originals to writing up copies. More out of curiosity than anything else you find yourself sneaking glances at him. 

Boy, was he handsome. The plop-him-on-a-movie-set-right-now kind of handsome. Now that he wasn’t falling to his doom, his dark hair was slicked back, perfectly styled, which only serves to highlight a firm, stubbled jaw line. He’s not the bulkiest guy you’ve ever seen but you sense a leaner strength that could only be the result of working hard on-the-job.

You catch yourself staring so you divert your attention back to the pile of paperwork you need to type up, distribute, and file. Next time you look out the window, you catch  _him_  staring. He smiles guiltily, tilting his head to the side in a  _Sorry_  kinda way. You smile back, wave, and shake your head. _Don’t worry about it._

He continues with his duties and when you look over again, he’s gone.

“Whaddya say, Newbie?”

“Huh?” you rotate your chair to face the gaggle of girls surrounding Suzy’s desk.

“You didn’t hear a word we said, did you?” the redhead asks smugly, a hint of knowing in her eye.

“Sorry, got distracted.”

The blonde perched on Suzy’s desk - Connie, you think is her name - waggles her eyebrows at you. “We’re talking Captain America.”

“Connie is a little obsessed, if you hadn’t gathered.” Your eyes flit to the sultry young woman on the other side of Suzy.  _Her name is … Charity?_  “Went to three separate shows of his before he became an actual war hero.”

“Obsessed is a strong word. And if I was, could you blame me?” she fans herself dramatically, drawing a giggle from the group. “So, Newbie. There’s rumors that he’s back in New York for good. Ya think it’s gossip or fact?”

You shake your head. “I have no clue. From the sounds of it, you’d know better than anyone else.”

“I think he’s here. He’s originally from New York, ya know.”

“What does he have that’s here? Family?” Suzy asks skeptically.

“I wonder what his day-job is now…” sighs a smaller girl whose name you kick yourself for forgetting.

Connie leans in, “Well I heard he’s doing top-secret work for the government.”

Your bark of laughter draws everyone’s gaze back to you. “Come on, you can’t be serious.” All eyes are on you, no one else is laughing. “I mean, that’s ridiculous. I’m sure he’s gone back to a normal job just like everyone else.”

“There is nothing normal about that man, if you catch my drift.”

“Constance Adler!” Suzy fusses, “Settle down, Flannery will be back any minute.”

“I’m not wrong!” she holds her hands up defensively. “What I’d give for just an evening of that man’s time.” Everyone groans, several wads of paper being tossed at her from different desks before it dissipates into giggles.

“Did I miss a scheduled meeting?” a cool voice echoes in the now-silent room.

Connie jumps three feet into the air, landing on her feet. “No ma’am,” the group answers.

“Then I trust we will all be returning to our work?”

A unanimous “yes ma’am” sounds off before the group scatters to their work stations.

Flannery looks between you and Suzy before rotating stiffly on her heel. Suzy sticks out her tongue out to Flannery’s back, prompting you to bite hard on your lip to avoid being caught laughing.

_Things aren’t so bad here after all._

——

Friday afternoon, you stare at the envelope that contains payment for your first week of work. While it definitely contains more than your last post had paid, you dread how you “have” to spend it this weekend. Sure, you could ignore your boss’s wishes and continue dressing like you had all week. But your gut told you that the man wouldn’t take kindly to thumbing your nose at him. It wasn’t like you dressed inappropriately. Your blouses were always crisp and neat and your pants pressed and clean. Though from eyeing the other ladies in the office, you’ve come to realize you were the only one who preferred pants to skirts. Your job in the factory had gotten you accustomed to dressing practically and safely - not to mention more comfortably. The idea that you had to go back to a life of pumps and snug dresses was daunting, but you knew you had to make an effort.

Your roommate had already promised to take you to a beauty parlor to get a fashionable cut after she had hinted that your natural hairstyle was  _slightly_  dated. Debbie was a lover of all things makeup and jumped at the chance to help you “glam up” your usual routine. You don’t usually give much thought to how you look. Not from lack of vanity, but becoming accustomed to your quality of work being a higher priority than how you looked. Now you had to accept the fact that you didn’t have that luxury. To do well in this office, you’ll have to look the part.

“You coming, Newbie?” Suzy chirps, handbag in tow.

“Coming where?”

“Flannery had a doctor’s appointment, so a coupla us are ditching early to grab drinks. Connie just has to hit up this club where Captain America’s been sighted.” You both roll your eyes simultaneously. “But there’s alcohol, so I’m in. You?”

“I think it’s a little early on in my career to be leaving work early. Maybe next time.” You smile, hoping it softens the refusal.

“Suit yourself,” she turns with a shrug. “You had a good first week, kid. See ya Monday!”

The office has thinned out through the day, only you and a few other employees are left plugging away at paperwork. Bristles scraping against glass diverts your attention from the monotonous work. Mr. Window Washer was back working on a new pane. This one seemed to be causing him a bit of trouble if you took his scrunched up eyebrows as any indication. With determination he scrubbed hard at a particular spot, continuing to add water and soap to the mix.

Armed with a smirk and a handkerchief from your handbag you join him on your side of the glass. Ignoring his puzzled look, you easily wipe the black smudge off of the inner window. “Thanks,” he mouths with a small smile before he rinses the soap and clears the window of excess water. As you turn back to your chair, he waves you back. He taps his temple twice and points at you.  _Smart girl._

You snort and gesture to the paperwork covering your desk. “Bored,” you say, doing your best to communicate how dull the work was on your face.

The corner of his mouth turns up and he nods with sympathy. He huffs a sigh, aiming his gaze to the rest of the windows he has to clean today. He seems tired, a little run down. From the week you had been here, you could tell he worked hard. You found yourself hoping he had a moment to rest the upcoming weekend.

He points down to the ground and shrugs.  _Gotta go._  You wag your fingers with a smile which he easily returns before sliding down to the fifth floor. Facing your desk again, you check your watch, wishing the day would speed up so you could make it to Macy’s before they closed.


	3. And Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 24 hours through Bucky's eyes; featuring Steve, Peggy, and a hint of the old Bucky.

Mondays usually were accompanied by drowsiness and wistful thoughts of a weekend passed.

Not for Bucky.

For Bucky, Monday meant he could return to a life where he blends in, where he gets to be the one who observes everyone else. Washing windows is not what he wants for the rest of his life, but for now it felt good to be doing something useful, to have tangible results in front of him everyday. Monday morning means having someplace to be, a set schedule for his day, someone counting on him, and quiet stretches of time alone and away from the worried eyes of his family members.

The pitying glances over breakfast were becoming a bit much for him. Bucky loved his family to death, wouldn’t trade them for the world. But for all their ability to give him space to figure his life out, they sure were clueless that he was keenly aware of the way they looked at him, the way they spoke to him. He doesn’t really blame them, he wouldn’t know how to handle himself either. Most days he pastes on a smile, tells them not to worry, he’d be back on his feet soon. Maybe if he said it enough times, he’d actually believe it too.

Unfortunately Monday also meant dealing with the rest of the boneheaded window washing crew. He was constantly reminding himself to go easy on them, they were just kids. But nothing made him more aware of his age and veteran status than being around them. Compared to their carefree countenances, he realized how much he’d been through, how much he’d seen, how much he’d survived. He should be grateful they were able to be total idiots instead of being shipped off to war. But most days he was tempted to share the number of his confirmed kills so they would leave him alone.

Bucky scales down the building, wind tousling his hair as he looks up to count how many floors he’s finished.

_That makes this… six._

He peers through the window, pretending to be checking the glass. Scanning the office, he doesn’t see you - his disappointment surprising him.

In the week in which he’d been working on the east side of the building he’d seen you every single day. The way you carried yourself was what first caught his eye - you were confident, poised, not demanding attention but not morphing into a wallflower. You cared about your work, always looking intense and focused. And you saw him. Not in the way people usually saw him - as a figure in the window, someone to be ignored and walked past. In the smallest of ways you were kind to him. You waved every single day, always had time to spare him a smile. There was something about you that was calming. Granted, your interactions were minimal and nonverbal. But you didn’t make him nervous. Which was a rare occurrence these days.

Something in him just wasn’t working lately. Every girl he took dancing, he stepped on her toes. Try to share a meal, he couldn’t find anything to chat about. Dating was easier before he left. Or maybe everything had gotten harder since he’d returned home.

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit it. Bucky knew he’d changed, he just hadn’t realized how much. Steve had echoed the sentiment a few nights ago.

Reluctantly, Bucky had allowed his idiot friend and Peggy to drag him to a bar after dinner - how the times had changed. It wasn’t one of their old haunts from before the war. Neither Bucky nor Steve could handle the cacophony of noise a club filled with energetic people brought. They bumped into several groups of those kinds of people, including a raucous group of slightly inebriated young women. Suddenly they felt old, weary, uneasy in a place where they used to belong. Or at least where Bucky used to belong, Steve always argued.

This place was quiet, refined even. Conversations were at a dull murmur while a band played casually. No one was here to drunkenly drown their sorrows or celebrate being alive wildly. Almost like everyone here knew the patrons just needed a rest.

“You realize you two don’t have to invite me on all your date nights, right?” Bucky huffed as the three settled at a table near the back.

Peggy smiled coyly.  “Don’t worry, James. You aren’t welcome for the entire night.” Steve choked on his drink, coughing violently while his ears burned pink. Bucky’s response had been something along the lines of “gross”.

After the usual chit-chat, Steve had waited for Peggy to excuse herself to refresh their drinks before broaching the subject.

“Doing okay, pal?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky responded, rolling the last sip of his whiskey in its glass.

“You sure?”

Bucky recognized that voice. Eyes flicking back to Steve’s guilty face, his suspicions were confirmed. “Alright, who’s been in your ear this time? Ma? Becca?”

“I’ve got my own eyes and ears.” Steve waited a beat before adding, “But your ma did mention-” Bucky groaned, not hearing the rest of the sentence. “Don’t be like that. They just care about you, Buck.”

“I know,” he snapped. Then he repeated quietly, “I know.”

“You’ve been dragging a lot. Gotta admit you haven’t been yourself.”

Bucky leaned back, leveling Steve with a hard look. “To tell you the truth, Steve? I don’t know who I am. Nothing that mattered to me before means anything anymore. Once I got to Europe… I stopped making plans. Didn’t seem to be much use in dreaming about things that I’d never come home to. But then you, being the punk you are, saved my ass countless times - even caught me falling off a damn train - and somehow I’m back in New York. I didn’t plan on having a 29th birthday or hugging my family again.” He idly scratched at an itchy patch of his beard. “Yet here we are.”

“We’re all lucky to be alive, Buck.”

“But for what?” Silence hung thick in the air at Bucky’s question.

“You know…” Steve started, then paused. “I do know where you’re coming from.”

“Don’t try to sell me that bullshit. You’re literally a god-damn hero. There are comic books written about you, movies carrying your name, and you have job security for the rest of your life. You had dinner at the White House on your birthday and bagged a kickass partner in crime. If that’s not purpose, what is?”

Steve had the nerve to look embarrassed. “It may be purposeful… but it’s not normal. You know better than anyone else that all I wanted was to do my part in the fight. To say I got more than I bargained for is an understatement.” Bucky could only respond with a snort. “But none of us thought I’d survive the scarlet fever, the arrhythmia, or the anaemia. I was lucky to make it as long as I did. The chances of me surviving the serum injection were laughably low.”

Memories of many days spent at Steve’s bedside float over the table, somehow sobering Bucky even more. “But each year was a surprise. My ma would’ve called it a blessing. I never knew what to do with myself, especially when the war started and I was the only man not being shipped off… I was desperate to feel normal. What I got was a hard swing in the other direction.” Steve’s eyes shifted to Peggy at the bar, a whisper of a smile on his lips. “I’m grateful for it, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes I wouldn’t hate it if I had ended up with a stable job, a calm life, and a happy home.

“So I get it. Purpose, normalcy… we’re all struggling to find what we lost the last few of years.” Steve clasped Bucky’s shoulder, “But Ma taught me that we always have to stand back up. I don’t care if I have to drag you to your feet, Buck, we’ll get you back up. Whatever we have to do to make it happen.” Bucky knew the stubborn fool in front of him wasn’t going to let him wallow much longer. The tables had turned harshly.

Peggy returned to her seat with three drinks in hand, instantly catching on to the shift in mood that had happened during her absence. Misty-eyed, Steve and Bucky cleared their throats and shifted in their seats.

“And while the pair of you are gallivanting around saving the world, I’m washing windows and living with my family, who don’t know what to do with me.” Bucky had meant it as a joke, but it came out much more bitter than intended.

“Still haven’t heard back from the VA?” Bucky just shook his head at Steve’s question, tossing his drink back in one gulp. “You know you’ll always have a job waiting for you at the SSR as long as me and Peggy are there.”

“Eh, that’s not the kind of normal I’m looking for.”

“What are you looking for?” Peggy asks softly, even gently, for her.

“Guess that’s the million dollar question, huh? A coupla years ago, all I cared about was having a good time and getting through school. Dancing with pretty dames. Maybe get hitched, have some kids.”

“And now?” Peggy prompts in a way that allowed no room for a vague answer.

“I wish I could tell ya, Peg. I really do.”

Peggy’s voice echoed in his mind again.

_And now?_

Bucky shakes that night from his mind, still not spying you anywhere in the office. Deciding you were either taking a late lunch or were sick, he gets on with his job. Halfway through cleaning the window he notices someone sit at your desk, which was strange. You’ve kept your workplace meticulously tidy since the first day he saw you - surely you wouldn’t appreciate this. Out of the corner of his eye he kept track of the stranger’s movements as he continues to work. Part of him wants to tell the lady to buzz off for you, another part of him can’t wait to watch you take down the person scrambling up your desk, the other part of him… . is definitely attracted to the Desk Invader.

He only catches glimpses of her during his task and her chair is angled away from him to tend to a filing cabinet adjacent to her desk, so he can’t see her face. But Bucky could tell she was graceful. Ruby red nails carded through the mounds of files, curled hair shined in its rolled-back fashion. Her dress was a bold blue - and fit in all the right places if he let his mind wander.

Right when he was getting desperate for a look at her, she swivels her chair back to the desk - revealing half of her face. Fine powder, bright red lipstick, nothing he hasn’t seen his sister don at the beginning of her day.

She’s made up like every other girl he’s seen pass through the office. Well, not every girl. You seemed to prefer a utilitarian approach to your appearance, which he didn’t ha–

And then the stranger turns fully towards the window, smiles, and waves at him.

It was you.

_Is that actually her?_

Bucky leans back in his rigging and takes you in fully. Yeah, looks like the utilitarian approach was out. In was a dame on-trend and truly pulling it off. Before you were beautiful, charming. Now? With the makeup only serving to highlight your features? You were stunning. Shaking his head, he can feel the heat in his cheeks with the realization that he’s been ogling you while you watch. Your smile falters, shoulders drop ever-so-slightly. Not very gentlemanly of you, Barnes.

Bucky touches his own face and hair, raising a brow. Making it obvious that he was looking you up and down, he quirks his head to the side in question.

You roll your eyes so far into your head, a chuckle escapes from him. After a surreptitious glance over your shoulder at the rest of the bullpen, you point towards the office he assumes belongs to your supervisor. He nods. Quickly, but clearly, you raise a certain finger in the direction of the office door.

A laugh emanates from deep in his chest, Bucky’s shoulders heaving. He can’t remember the last time he’s laughed hard enough that his eyes are forced shut. When he opens them again, a similar smile is echoed on your face, definitely pleased with his reaction. You’re sassy. He likes that.

With a remnant of a easygoing-Bucky he’d almost forgotten about, he sticks out his lower lip appreciatively while nodding towards you. Accompanied by a wide grin, he knows you’ve gotten his point.  _You look good._

You duck your head, but he catches the smile you aim toward your lap. A little something stirs in his chest.

_And now?_

Then and there, he decides he’s going to allow himself to be impulsive.

Just this once.

Bucky knows for certain he has never completed his job so quickly -and probably never as sloppily. He checks his watch as he smooths down his hair. Just as planned, he’s finished earlier than usual - much to the confusion of the rest of the window washers. After stashing his supplies in the outdoor service closet designated for his team he rounds the building, the front entrance being his destination. The remainder of the team was still cleaning several floors up.

From above Bucky hears his boss shout, “Where you going, Barnes?”

“Don’t worry about it, Harrison,” he shouts back. “I finished. Got something to take care of.”

“You better be here early tomorrow!”

Tucking the tail of his shirt into his slacks, he favors the stairs for the elevator as he climbs to the sixth floor and is met with a giant bullpen of desks and offices.

That’s when it registers exactly how many women work in this office - funny how he hadn’t noticed before you walked in. He’s become accustomed to having little attention paid to him due to the nature of his job but now at least a dozen sets of cat-eye-lined eyes are set on his every movement.

_Oh boy._

Trying to be as nondescript as possible he begins to head to your desk when the abrupt clearing of a throat stops him. Sitting at a huge desk immediately in front of the elevator is the most intimidating woman he’s ever seen. Tall and rail-thin, her features seem to be pulled tight with the fastidious bun resting at the nape of her neck. A gold sign affixed to the front of the desk reads: M. Flannery, Office Manager.

“May I help you…  _sir_?” Scrutinizing him behind thick-framed glasses, she somehow dons an expression that makes her more severe.

“Umm… I’m just looking for someone… ma’am.”

“May I inquire who it is you have business with?”

He waves a hand, warding her away from the chock-full appointment book she was reaching for. “No, I don’t have an appointment or anythin’ like that.”

“Then what exactly  _is_  the reason you are here?”

“There’s a typist I was hoping to speak with.”

“What is her name?”

_Shit._

“Umm, I- we’ve only exchanged pleasantries. I was hoping to catch her name today.”

Mrs. Flannery hums disapprovingly.

“I know where her desk is,” he points to the furthest corner of the office, “she had on a blue dress today. Can I pop over there and say hello?”

“I am afraid unauthorized persons are not allowed past the front desk.” An argument bubbles in him, but he swallows it down after her stern gaze tells him that it was a lost battle.

“… Could you ask her to meet me out here, then?”

“The woman you are looking for has already left for the day.”

“Oh.” All his nervous energy deflates and the letdown weighs heavy in his gut. He turns to leave when Mrs. Flannery speaks again.

“You may leave a note with me and I will deliver it to her when she arrives in the morning.”

“I would appreciate that, thank you, ma’am.” He looks down at his empty hands, then scratches the back of his neck. “Got a pad and pen I could use?” She sighs heavily, as if his request is the most inconvenient part of her day. Once she shoves the utensils in his direction, he stares at the paper. In the heat of his impulsivity he hoped he’d see you and know exactly what to say. Now the blank page mocks him. Mrs. Flannery’s pointer finger taps on the desk, urging him to hurry up.

Bucky glances up at the office manager again. “I’m guessing I can’t convince you to give me her name, huh?”

“I am not in the habit of giving out young women’s personal information to every dandy that walks in. I will make sure it gets to the girl in the blue dress.”

Becoming increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze, he scribbles the only thing he could think of and folds the paper twice. Holding out the note Bucky asks, “For her eyes only, ma’am?”

Mrs. Flannery’s eyes narrow as she takes the note from him. “I am offended at the implication that I would violate the privacy of a person’s correspondence.” With an upturned nose she swivels away from Bucky, promptly dismissing him.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

With a spring in his step he returns to the stairwell, whistling a happy tune; purposefully ignoring the room of women still watching his every move.


	4. Just Missed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love the trope of people missing each other by bare moments?

Exiting the elevator the next morning you fumble through your handbag, trying to find the lipstick you didn’t have time to put on before you left.

 

_Of all mornings for the subway to not be working it had to be today. I’m so late, I’m gonna have to bust my tail before Anderson notices._

 

“Good morning, Mrs. Flannery,” you say absentmindedly as you approach her desk.

 

“You’re late. I have-”

 

“I know, it’s been a hell of a-- excuse me, it’s been a _heck_ of a morning,” you interrupt, head still down, lipstick nowhere to be found.

 

“Miss-”

 

“It won’t happen again, I promise.” You rush past her as your mental to-do list only grows longer.

 

_“Ahem.”_

 

There was no denying that was aimed toward you. You come to a halt, slowly turning back to the daunting woman. Peering over her glasses, one hand perched on her hip while the other was stretched out to you, grasping a piece of paper.

 

“This was left for you yesterday afternoon after you had completed your shift.” You timidly reach for the slip, when Flannery pulls it back at the last moment. “I feel the need to remind you that this is a place of business. Not romance, not courtship, not frivolity. I meant what I said on your first day - beaus are NOT allowed in this office. This is the only time I will extend grace. Understood?”

 

Mystified you take the paper, nodding your understanding.

 

_What the hell is she talking about?_

 

Suzy sidles beside you on the walk to your desk before she whisper-shouts, “The note was for her!”

 

Immediately, six other women leap from their desks and huddle around you talking a mile a minute.

 

“We were here when he dropped it off!”

 

“He was so cute!”

 

“Why do I feel like I’ve seen him in the movies?”

 

“Maybe he’s a war-hero?”

 

“He looked familiar,” Connie muses.  

 

“Who cares! What does it SAY?” Suzy urges as she pokes your arm.

 

The huddle falls silent as you open the neatly folded note.

 

 

> _**Sixth Floor,** _
> 
> _**You looked beautiful today. Sorry I missed ya.** _
> 
> _**Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.** _
> 
> _**Window Washer** _

 

The gaggle of girls around you squeal for a moment before Flannery’s _shhh_ quiets everyone to whispers.

 

“How SWEET.”

 

“ _He’s_ one of the window washers?!”

 

“Wait, we have window washers here?”

 

“I still feel like I know him from somewhere else. . .”

 

“Well, how do you feel?” Suzy draws the focus back to you.

 

You bite your lip. “Umm. . . it makes me feel. . . pretty great.”

 

“Jeeze, for you that may as well be equal to jumping up and down!” One nudges you gently with her elbow. “What are you gonna do?”

 

“Do? I- I’m not going to DO anything. I got a nice note and I appreciate it,” you say, hoping it would bring an end to all the attention surrounding you. It didn’t.

 

“Oh come ON!”

 

“Have you been flirting? You need to be more tantalizing!”

 

“You have to find him RIGHT NOW!”

 

“Show us your moves, we can help!”

 

Waving your arms for quiet you declare, “I’m already late and if I don’t get to work, I’ll be canned before I get the chance to see him again. Is that what you want?”

 

Everyone begrudgingly trudges across the office while Suzy lags behind. With a knowing grin she says, “Lemme know if you wanna talk about it. It’s nice to see you smile like that.”

 

As she leaves you plop down into your desk chair, rereading the note. It’s then that you realize just how much you’ve been smiling the last few minutes and just how fast your heart was beating.

 

 **You looked beautiful today.** _Yeah, I could tell you enjoyed the new look. Why am I blushing all over again?_

 

 **Sorry I missed ya.**   _He came up here to try to talk to me. To actually see me. In person. He faced the wrath of Flannery to get up here and leave this._

 

 **Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.** _He can’t wait to see me? Does he look forward to seeing me as much as I look forward to seeing him? Of course he couldn’t be bothered to sign his actual name. What a tease._

 

It takes a shout from Anderson’s office to bring you back to reality. Propping the note against your typewriter you read it one more time before grabbing your pencil and notepad.

 

For the rest of the day you anxiously check the window every few minutes, waiting for the author of your note. Every moment you feel self-conscious, not sure what you should do when he stops on your floor. Is he expecting more to come from this? Do you need to be a little more flirtatious, like some of the girls had mentioned? Should you be making more of an effort? Is that something you even wanted?

 

But then you see him and the uncertainty fades away. The work day is almost over before he descends to the sixth floor. You make eye contact, check your watch, and tap its face twice. _You’re late._

 

He nods while wiping his brow. His head lolls to the side, eyes closed, tongue sticking out in a comical manner. _Slept in._

 

Shaking your head and tutting softly, you raise an eyebrow.

 

Both his hands shoot up in a _I know, I know. Won’t happen again._

 

With a short nod, you go back to filing and leave Window Washer to his work.

 

By the time you turn around, you expect him to be gone. To your pleasant surprise, he seems to be waiting for you. He beckons you to the window. When you get close enough, you notice something written in the suds at the very bottom of the pane. The word doesn’t make sense to you, so you scrunch your eyebrows at him.

 

He taps himself on the chest several times and mouths “my name”. You look again and it finally clicks. B-U-C-K-Y. You nod your understanding and smile. It isn’t until he points at you that you realize he’s waiting for your name. You press your finger to the glass, waiting for him to mirror your touch. You trace your name on your side, allowing him to spell it on his side. He reads it and grins wide. _Nice to meet ya,_ he mouths.

 

“Mary! Get in here, take notes.” You turn from the voice, eyes rolling into the back of your head.

 

Hooking a thumb toward your boss’ office, you sigh deeply. _Gotta go._

 

Bucky held two fingers to his brow and gave you a half-hearted salute. _Good luck in there._

 

\------

You are dutifully typing a letter when a pair of shiny Oxford heels appear in your peripheral vision next to your desk.  “You need to go ask that boy on a date.”

 

Heaving a sigh, you keep your eyes on the task in front of you. “Didn’t we have this discussion yesterday, Suze?”

 

“Yeah, and you still haven’t wised-up.” Papers rustle on your desk as Suzy props a hip against it.

 

“On the contrary, I think I’m exercising a lot of wisdom.”

 

She scoffs, finally drawing your attention away from your paperwork.

 

“Someone’s a scaredy cat.”

 

“Suzy.” You fix her with a pointed look.

 

Pretending to have a sudden interest in her cuticles she mutters, “It’s the only possible explanation.”

 

“How do we know that note was an invitation? What if he was just saying hi? What if he-”

 

“Mhmm. Those are the thoughts of someone who is unafraid.”

 

“How do we even know if he’d want to go on a date with me?” You lean back in your chair, desperately wishing for the end of this conversation.

 

The redhead’s eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “I’m sorry - ‘You looked beautiful’? ‘Can’t wait to see you’? Sorry, doll, but people don’t say that to just anyone. I adore you, but I can definitely wait to see you if it means coming in to work.” She dodges the playful kick you aim in her direction. “All I’m saying is that you weren’t here when he left that note - I was. He was all kinds of antsy and blushing.”

 

“He works outside, maybe he had a sunburn,” you deadpan.

 

“You were just talking about how you barely know anyone in the city and you need to meet new people. HE’S new people!”

 

“But I don’t even know if I want a romantic relationship right now.”  
  
“Then you’ll tell him that after your first date if you still feel that way. But why shut it down now when it doesn’t even exist yet? Maybe he’s lonely too-” Suzy’s eyes dart behind you and her posture changes. She leans in toward you, feigning interest in the letter you’d abandoned. “Oh yes, those are the addresses I was looking for. Don’t know how they got on your desk. And you needed something from me right?”

 

You sit stunned by this sudden change of behavior until you see Flannery approaching your desk.

 

“Uhh-yes. I was wondering what the protocol would be for when. . .” you both watch as the office manager floats into the filing room and shuts the door behind her. You and Suzy relax back into your previous positions. “I never said lonely,” you point out, shoving your defensive instincts down.

 

Suzy rolls her eyes and with a wave of her manicured hand says “Fine, fine, you’re being adventurous. Does that make you feel better?”

 

“No.”

 

“Answer me one last question, Newbie, and I’ll leave you alone.” Raising a brow, you wait for the question. “What’ve you got to lose?”

 

You weren’t able to answer then, and you still don’t have an answer now.

 

Under Suzy’s watchful eye, the second your watch reads 12 o’clock you leave your desk and hustle down the stairs, hoping the physical activity would work out some of the anxiety in your chest. It doesn’t.

 

Turning the corner toward the service entrance you see the window washers gathered outside in a loose group, taking their lunch break. Your heart begins to beat faster when you imagine actually holding a conversation with Bucky. What in the world were you going to say to him?

 

_I really should’ve thought this through a little more._

 

But then your feet were taking you toward the group and it was too late to turn back now. The clicking of your shoes on pavement draws the attention of each man whose heads simultaneously swing to watch you. You stop a few feet away from them, losing your words.

 

“Can we help you, miss?” The apparent leader of the window washing crew steps forward. He’s much younger than Bucky, scrawny and tan. He barely looks 18 years old.

 

“Um. . .” you scan the faces, not finding the one you’re looking for. “Is Bucky around?”

  
The leader’s eyes narrow, giving you a too-thorough once-over. “Whaddya want with him? If it has to do with windows, I’m in charge here. Name’s Harrison. Maybe I can help you out.”

 

You control the urge to fidget under his scrutiny, steeling yourself to squarely match his gaze. “No, there’s something else I need to discuss with him.”

 

“He had to skip out early today. Something about a family emergency.”

 

“Oh. I see.” You think for a moment, not enjoying the pack of men watching you like vultures. “Would you let him know I stopped by?” You turn on your heel when Harrison speaks again.

 

“What’s your name, baby-doll?”

 

Shutting your eyes you remind yourself to watch your temper. Thinking better of giving your name, you spare a glance over your shoulder. Coldly you reply, “Tell him ‘Sixth Floor’. He’ll know.”

  
More questions are shouted at you but you keep walking, very familiar with the rakish tone in which they were spoken. You didn’t have time for drooling boys. For a moment you worry that Bucky is cut from the same cloth as them. But something deep in you urges that he’s different.

 

Unbeknownst to you, when Bucky arrives at work the next day Harrison actually does mention your visit.

 

“Barnes, some broad came lookin’ for ya at lunchtime yesterday.”

 

Bucky doesn’t spare a look from his kit he was preparing for the day. “Yeah? What for?”

 

“She wouldn’t tell us. Seemed kinda stuck-up and snooty. Like she was better than us or something.”

 

Hitching his kit over his shoulder to head to the roof, Bucky smooths back a stray strand of hair. “I hate to break it to ya, but if she was acting like that I’m sure you deserved it.” As the kid who was technically his supervisor opens his mouth to protest Bucky interjects, “Did she say anything else?”

 

Unamused, Harrison practically pouts. “She just said ‘sixth floor’ and said you’d get it. Then she left.”

 

Bucky stills immediately at the mention of you. “Really? She said that?”

 

“Yup. Was a bombshell too, real date-bait if you catch my drift.”

 

Eyes closing, Bucky imagines strangling the teenager in front of him rather than actually carrying out the action. “Shut your trap.”

 

“Wish she’d stop by again, wouldn’t mind an evening of necking with her.” He conspiratorially winks at Bucky, mistakenly thinking he would go along with the sentiment.

 

Squaring up with Harrison, Bucky leans in dangerously close and says lowly, “You’d better watch that mouth, kid.”

 

“What’s the big deal? She’s not your girl or anything is she?”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky insists, eyes practically boring through the terrified kid in front of him. “She’s not yours, so don’t be a creep. Girls don’t like creeps, if you haven’t caught onto that yet. And I don’t either.” He leans back, smirking with satisfaction at the deer-in-the-headlights look he was getting. Resting his brush on his shoulder Bucky turns to begin his day.

 

“Keep your paws off me, Barnes!” Harrison shouts to Bucky’s back.

 

“I didn’t touch you, Harrison. Maybe you would’ve noticed if you weren’t always on skirt patrol,” Bucky tosses over his shoulder as he begins to climb the fire escape.

 

As Bucky climbs higher his thoughts turn to you. You’d been looking for him. You’d obviously shut down Harrison and the rest of the boys. Anyone that sassed that kid was a hero in his book.

 

Maybe his note hadn’t been a total disaster after all. Once he’d gotten into bed that night, he fretted over that dumb piece of paper for hours. He thought of a million things he could’ve said besides the three hastily scribbled lines. A million kinder, wittier, more fitting words for you. You’d been nice enough the next day, playful even. And he’d finally gotten your name - a sweet, suitable name that rolled around in his head for hours. But he couldn’t help feeling like he needed to do more.

 

He found himself even more excited to get to the sixth floor today, to see you, to have a little hope, to share in a smile. Though that’s not exactly what happens.

 

\------

 

“Get in here, NOW!”

 

Anderson’s tone instantly drowns your insides with dread.

 

You rush to his door, quietly opening it. Anderson’s heels are crossed, kicked up to rest on the edge of his desk. His eyes bore into you, disdain obvious.

 

“Sir?” you make out much smoother than you feel.

 

“Do you know what this is?” he flicks a letter across his desk toward you. Quietly picking it up, you silently read its contents.

  
“The steel mill is turning down our partnership offer? Because they never received paperwork? Sir, I definitely-”

 

“Read the letterhead,” he bit out. “And then read what you sent out. What do you notice, Doris?” Another letter is flicked in your direction. You bite back a retort about your name.

 

Holding the letters side-by-side, a pit drops in your stomach. “I copied the address incorrectly.”

 

Anderson gives you a tight nod, jaw clenched. The room is claustrophobic in silence.

 

“Sir, I-”

 

“You cost us thousands of dollars with this idiotic move, because you didn’t proofread your work enough? Because you can’t copy a damn number over?”

 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how I missed-”

 

“You missed it because you were careless!” Anderson bangs a fist to his desk, causing you to jump a fraction. He stands up abruptly, stalking over to you. “This job isn’t a fucking joke. You were given a chance because you kicked up a fuss about being let go when our boys came back from war. You want this job? Act like it!” With every word Anderson steps in your direction causing you to match with a step backward. You are in his office’s threshold when he leans in and whispers menacingly, “If you can’t get a damn letter right then you shouldn’t even be here in the first place, Marge. Make sure it doesn’t happen again or you’re gone. Now get out of my office and fix your screw-up!” The door slams in your face.

 

Hands shaking, you make your way to your desk. Willing the tears not to fall you take a few deep breaths. Elbows rest on the surface, head in your hands, focusing on not falling apart in the middle of the busy office.

 

_You’re tougher than this. A man raising his voice at you is nothing new. You are fine, you made a mistake. Don’t you dare lose your composure, it’ll only make you seem weak._

 

A tapping on the window directly next to your desk startles you. Bucky is there, looking more concerned than ever. He tilts his head, eyebrows furrowed together. _What’s wrong?_

 

The tears spill out at the kindness reflected in his own. You search desperately for a handkerchief before turning back to the window. Dabbing at your wet cheeks furiously, you gesture to Anderson’s office. You blink against the hankie, hoping to catch the makeup before it runs down your entire face. Pointing to yourself you mouth “my fault”. The tears don’t stop for several minutes, but everytime you look up Bucky is sitting at the window, watching you sorrowfully.

 

Eventually you dry up, puffy eyes meeting Bucky’s. “I’m fine,” you whisper, dropping your gaze to the handkerchief in your lap that you’ve been twisting into knots.

 

More tapping draws your attention back to Bucky, who promptly flips off Anderson’s closed door. You manage to stutter a laugh out in between your sniffles, feeling a little lighter already.

 

With an admonishing shake of your head that you don’t mean, you return his smile. _Thanks._

 

You could be imagining it, but Bucky seems hesitant to move on to the next floor. Giving him what you hope is a reassuring thumbs-up you mouth, “I’m okay.”

 

Looking thoroughly unconvinced he watches you for a few seconds before nodding slowly. He drops out of your sight, though you still stare out the window where he had been.

 

\------------------

 

One day passes where you don’t see Bucky at all.

 

Two days pass. No Bucky.

 

Three days pass. Zero handsome window washers.

 

When the end of your day comes and it hits you that he hasn’t made his usual stop you try to ignore the disappointment that prickles your heart.

 

It takes a while before it dawns on you that since you had started your job Bucky had washed every single window on this side of the building. Which meant he would move onto another side or possibly an entirely different building.

 

On your walk into work Friday morning, you notice that the window washing crew’s tools are absent from the sidewalk. An unfamiliar emotion has you biting your lip as you approach your desk.

 

_I guess that’s that. We kept missing each other and time just. . .ran out. It’s not a big deal. . . If it’s not a big deal then why am I so sad?_

 

Turning your gaze to the window immediately to your left, you notice a piece of paper in the middle of the pane. You stare for a moment, fairly certain that it hadn’t been there when you left work last night. With a purposeful step you go to the window, a sneaking suspicion in the back of your mind. You find a note written in a familiar hand taped to the outside of the window, the writing facing you so you could read it clear as day.

 

 

> **_Sixth Floor,_ **
> 
> **_I’ve cleaned my last window on this building which means I won’t be seeing you everyday - an idea I’m not keen on. Can I take you to dinner? That new place down the block from the building looks nice. If so, Saturday night at 7?_ **
> 
> **_Bucky_ **


	5. The First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Reader have their first date. Cuteness, fluff, embarrassment, and cheekiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For warnings, Bucky does have a very small PTSD episode and symptoms of PTSD are discussed. Don't want anyone to be surprised by that if it could be potentially triggering. Other than that, enjoy 💙

Seven o’clock on the dot Saturday night you climb the stairs of the familiar subway stop. The hustle and bustle of the city’s nightlife fills your ears as your feet hit the pavement - your mind echoes a similar frenzy. You’d read Bucky’s note a thousand times, had spent all day Friday debating whether or not to go on this date. Every time you made up your mind to stay home, his face interrupted those thoughts. You relived the butterflies you felt when you shared your name with him on the windowpane. You saw his cheeky smirk as he complimented you. You smile at the image of him flipping Anderson’s office the bird. Him laughing when you had done it the first time. A laugh you discovered you were desperate to hear. There was something about this man that drew you like a damn magnet. 

 

Passing your work building, the anticipation you’ve been keeping at bay all day threatens to break free. Your roommate hadn’t helped matters. 

 

Debbie asked a million questions while placing tidy rolls in your hair.  _ This guy is a window washer? And he snuck into your work and left you a note? You’ve never even had a real conversation with him? How do you know he’s not a weirdo? Do you have any mutual friends? What kind of a name is Bucky? What’s his last name? Where are you meeting him? Do you want me to follow you to make sure you’re safe? _

 

You’d sighed deeply, making a mentally note to learn how to do your own hair as soon as possible.  _ Yes, he’s a window washer. He didn’t sneak in, he spoke with the office manager. We’ve had conversations, just nonverbal ones. Honestly I don’t know that he’s not a weirdo, that’s why I’m going on a first date. No mutual friends. It’s probably a nickname or his parents are just that creative. Don’t know his last name, I’ll find out tonight. It’s a restaurant right down the street from work. No, Debbie, I do not want you to follow me, relax. _

 

Doing your best to weave your way through the heavy foot-traffic, you catch a glimpse of Bucky standing in front of the restaurant. The nerves crawl their way into your throat and for a second you consider turning around to go home. You’d never officially given him confirmation that you’d be here; he’d trusted that you’d see the note and show up if you wanted to, right? But then you hear Suzy in the back of your mind -  _ What’ve you got to lose? _

 

Taking a deep breath you wave to Bucky over the crowd, catching his attention. He turns, a relieved yet humble smile looking out of place compared to his handsome suit. He was taller than you’d guessed - you suspected at one time he’d stood more confidently. He had also shaved, which only accentuated that razor-sharp jawline.

 

Each step forward your heart rate reaches a new level. Each step it registers exactly what you’re doing and who you’re with. Each step carries a weight you feel but don’t quite understand.

 

Finally you are toe-to-toe with each other, no glass between you.

 

“Hey there,” a smooth voice greets you. 

 

That voice. That voice washes over you, taking your nerves and untangling them, soothing them, washing them out through your toes that are curling in your shoes. At the same time that voice hits you like a brick wall, stealing your breath, stunning you temporarily. You don’t know what you were expecting, but it wasn’t THAT.

 

“Hi,” you return, a little breathlessly.

 

“Everything okay?” His smile drops immediately, apprehension evident.

 

“Yeah, yes, everything’s great. I just. . .” you pause, thinking to yourself that your admission could be a very strange start to this date. “I just realized this is the first time I’ve heard your voice.”

 

Bucky’s shoulders relax slightly, a nervous grin back on his face. “I was thinking the same thing. Crazy to think this is the first actual conversation we’ve had.” You nod eagerly in agreement and hold his gaze for a few more seconds before both of you become aware that you are standing in the middle of the sidewalk staring at each other. “Um, shall we?” Bucky asks, opening the door to the restaurant for you.

 

A posh atmosphere was not what you expected to walk into. But here you were amongst fine china and luscious flower arrangements everywhere. You find yourself admiring the chandeliers and eyeing the well-dressed patrons as Bucky approaches the maître d'.

 

“Reservation for Barnes.”

 

_ Bucky Barnes, huh? Catchy. _

 

“Oh, Mr. Barnes. Mr. Dugan called ahead and had a table specially prepared for you.”

 

“Uh, he did? That’s really not necessary.” Bucky sounds surprised, embarrassed even. 

 

“Oh, we insist. He is an old family friend. This way, please.”

 

“Friends in high places, huh?” you whisper over your shoulder as Bucky trails behind you and the hostess.

 

“More like nosey friends in mediocre places,” he grumbles under his breath.

 

While it felt extremely high-class, the atmosphere was quiet: conversations were kept at a low volume almost like there was a reverence in the room. With an extraordinarily decadent table reserved in a corner you are seated in no time, which leaves the pair of you sitting idly, twirling thumbs and picking at nails after you’d read through the menu.

  
“So-”

“How-”

 

You both stop.

 

“I’m so-

“You go-”

 

Nervous energy in the form of laughter bubbles out of both of you.

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky leans his elbows against the table, “I haven’t been on a date in a while. I guess I’m a little rusty.”

 

“It’s been a long time for me too,” you confess.

 

He takes a deep breath, finally making eye contact. “Okay, we’ll start simple. Where ya from?”

 

“Tarrytown, about 30 miles north of here. You?”

 

“Brooklyn, born and raised.”

 

You’re briefly interrupted by the waiter who promptly takes your order and leaves you to your devices.

 

“Alright, I have a question for you, Bucky.”

 

“I’m all yours.”

 

“My roommate made me promise to ask you about your name.”

 

He chuckles as he settles his napkin in his lap. “Figured that was coming.”

 

“So what’s the story?”

 

“It’s not very exciting. There were a million other James’ at school and my middle name is. . . Buchanan.” You cover your mouth with your fist, doing your best to stifle a giggle. “I know, I know, I don’t know what they were thinking either. I still ask Dad if he was drunk when I was born - he never finds it as funny as I do. And obviously you can’t go around calling a toddler Buchanan, so Bucky it was.”

 

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you tested out. “It suits you.” A smile spreads across his face, a contagious one. Clearing your throat and shifting in your seat you say, “Alright, your turn for a question, Barnes.”

 

“What, I don’t get to hear about your name?”

 

“Nope. Try again.”

 

“Okay, then. Where’d you come from before this job?”

 

“I worked for Chevrolet during the war. There was a massive demand at the factory in my hometown. I signed up, much to my mother’s disappointment, but I was good at what I did. Worked on engines, learned a lot about combat vehicles. Even got promoted a few times, ended up being the foreman of my department.”

 

What could only be described as awe flashes through Bucky’s eyes. “That’s incredible. Why didn’t you stay?”

 

“Well. . .” you bit your lip, picking your words carefully. “The war ended. Men came back expecting to pick up where they left off. A majority of the women were relieved - it was tough work. But I truly enjoyed it. One day my supervisor called me into his office and informed me of the date my predecessor was returning, insinuating that would be my last day. I looked him straight in the eye and told him I would happily take the returning soldier on as a member of my crew.”

 

Bucky’s brow arches, smirk curling his lips. “And then?”

 

“And then several executives met with me and tried to persuade me to leave. Said my pretty face didn’t belong in a factory all day, that the work was too hard. Even though I’d been doing it for years without a problem when they needed labor. I mentioned the New York Times would surely be interested in hearing my story about them breaching a contract to counteract their post-war media praise.

 

“They scrambled and offered me the corporate job to try to smooth things over. But it was clear that I was not welcome to stay. They paid to move me into the city a few weeks ago.” You shrug, “I never wanted to be a career typist, but I’m not sure what else is out there for me to do. I don’t want to teach, I don’t want to just be a housewife. At least I can do this job well.”

 

Bucky nods, appearing to be lost in thought. 

 

During your chatter, you’ve barely noticed the food that had appeared in front of you. You found comfort in how Bucky seemed to be paying much more attention to you than his plate as well. 

 

“Although my job is a cakewalk compared to your normal routine, I’m sure,” you continue. 

 

“Nah, I think you’ve got it worse. Being stuck in a tie in an office heading into a New York summer? I’m much happier outside where I can catch some wind.”

 

“Even though it’s kinda hazardous?”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Bucky shakes his head as he takes another bite of food.

 

“But you’re. . . . you’re so high up, can’t that be nerve-wracking?”

 

“It’s not as dangerous as you think.”

 

You’re sure the face you pull is overly dramatic, but his nonchalance is almost unnerving. “Are you kidding? You almost died on my first day of work!”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

You give Bucky an incredulous look. “Do you not remember falling from the roof? It looked like part of your harness had either slipped or wasn’t secured or something like that. You caught yourself on the ledge of a window on my floor.” Bucky still looks lost. “You don’t remember giving me a thumbs up and disappearing?”

 

Much to your astonishment, Bucky throws his head back and laughs. “Oh that? Trust me, I’ve been in worse situations.”

 

Your jaw drops, brows drawing together. Somehow Bucky laughs harder. (You had been right, that laugh was worth hearing.) “You can’t be serious.”

 

“It reminded me of a particularly hairy day but my best friend managed to pull me out. If I survived the war, I feel like I could survive anything at this point. Including the knuckleheads I work with.” His tone shifts away from mirth. “I’m sorry if they were rude to you that day. They’re ignorant kids who think they know everything.”

 

“For a second I thought you might turn out to be a knucklehead too.”

 

He winces. “They were that bad, huh?”

 

“They were. . .” you pause to search for the right word, “boys.”

 

“Yeah, they got some growing up to do.”

 

Your waiter places your bill on the table, wishing you a good night. But then your hand bumps into Bucky’s as you both lay hands on the slip of paper.

 

“No, no, no,” you tut, “this is on me.” With firmness you slide the bill to your side of the table.

 

“Nuh-huh, Sixth Floor, this was my idea.” He pulls the bill back to his side. 

 

“And you wouldn’t be paying for a meal if I hadn’t shown up,” with one more slip in your direction.

 

“How about this,” Bucky proposes, sliding the bill from beneath your fingers, “I got this one. Ma would kill me if she found out I didn’t pay for a first date, so really, you’re doin’ me a favor. I’ll split it with you next time. Deal?”

 

_ Next time. _

 

“Deal,” you agree, looking down to hide your goofy smile.

 

Once the bill is settled, you stay in your seats for nearly an hour while the conversation continues to flow. Topics move from family, to childhood stories - in which most of his involve a guy named Steve - before somehow coming back around to work.

 

“So, what brought you to window washing?”

 

“Family friend wanting to help a veteran out. It’s not want I want to do forever, but it hasn’t been awful while I’m getting back on my feet.” He twists his dirty napkin in his fingers. You try to steer the conversation away from serious territory.

 

“What, not looking to fast-track your career to wash the Empire State Building’s windows?”

 

Several things happen before Bucky has the chance to answer that question.

 

Out of the corner of your eye you spy a busboy carrying an entire tray of glassware. The tray is piled high, he’s unsteady, shaking, clearly new at his job. A waiter rounds the corner out of the kitchen, barreling straight into the busboy. 

 

The relatively quiet ambience of the restaurant is shattered as glasses, plates, bowls, and the like smash into the floor. Shards of glass explode across the restaurant, a deafening roar shocking most of the patrons out of their discussions.

 

Bucky is on his feet, chair overturning with his sudden movement. His eyes dart between the restaurants’ two obvious exits, head swiveling around in search of something else. Reaching behind his back, his fingers grab at air. 

 

You had been fairly certain he had served - how many men his age hadn’t? - but you weren’t going to broach the subject unless he did first. His posture took you back to several memories of your uncle after he’d come back from World War I. He had lived with your family for a few years after being discharged because of his condition. You were barely a toddler but could remember the lamp in the living room shining on in the night, your uncle being awake at all hours. When a door was slammed or a radio squealed because it lost its frequency, he’d freeze at first. Sometimes he screamed, sometimes he swung a fist at thin air. Your mother always ushered you to another room, telling you he’d be okay in a moment.

 

Shell-shock, she’d called it. It had a hundred other names: war neuroses, battle fatigue, combat exhaustion, railway spine, soldier’s heart, combat stress reaction, nostalgia. But it was all the same thing. The panic, the sadness, the agitation, the flashbacks, the insomnia. Too many people believed it wasn’t real. Generals and doctors alike insisted it was faked, an excuse to be treated and discharged. But you had seen the fear in your uncle’s eyes, the same fear Bucky was fighting right now.

 

It’s in that small instant that it dawns on you - what Bucky must have seen in his time overseas. He may smile and appear easygoing. But beneath that veneer was a survivor. Someone who has experienced unspeakable horror, who has lost things he could never get back. You wonder what point in time he’s taken back to; what he’s seeing, what he’s trying to escape from.

 

But then Bucky blinks a few times, hands clenching into fists at his side while he attempts to gain control of his shallow breathing. It’s over in a moment, but doesn’t escape your notice. His behavior stands out to no one but you - several people had stood up to help clean the mess, busboys were scattering everywhere to pick up shards.

 

You stand as well, drawing Bucky’s attention. “Wanna walk me home?”

 

He only nods, following you out of the restaurant. The pair of you walk in silence for a few blocks, your feet leading you home out of habit.

 

Your mind races.  _ What can I do for him? Should I ask him about it? Do I pretend it didn’t happen? Should I talk first or let him say something? I’ll keep quiet for a bit. . . Okay I can’t handle walking around New York in dead silence. _

 

“So, what do you want to do?”

 

He turns to you with a confused expression, obviously being dragged away from a memory. “Sorry, what?”

 

“You said you didn’t want to wash windows forever. What do you want to do?”   
  


“Umm. . . I dunno.” He scratches the back of his neck absentmindedly before shoving his hands in his pockets. “I applied for my benefits from the G.I. Bill a few months ago. I’m still waiting to hear back from the VA. They’re all kinds of busy, though. If they come through, maybe I could go back to school or get trained in something specific. . . no matter how much I think about it, I can’t come up with a good answer.”

 

“Well, you’ve still got time to think about it.”

 

“I’ve got lots of time. Somehow that’s not as comforting as it should be.”

 

You hum in thought. “A salesman? Seems like you could be a sweet-talker.”

 

You get an eye-roll and a sarcastic “Ha ha,” as a response. 

 

“An accountant?”

 

“Nah,” he scrunches his nose, “too much time inside.”

 

“That’s fair. . . a teacher?”

 

“I don’t think schools would want me around kids with my war experience.”

 

“I’m sure that’s not true. Someone who has seen the very worst of humanity would be well-equipped to deal with teenagers.” You both chuckle as Bucky admits that you may be right. 

 

“I had always thought about doing something with my hands. Ma was always getting onto me n’ Steve for taking apart the toaster to see how it worked.”

 

“Bless your poor mother’s soul.”

 

“Hey, we could always put it back together,” you raise an eyebrow at him, “. . . most times.”

 

“Ah, the truth comes out,” you tease. This time the silence is more comfortable, less tense. You make it a few more blocks side-by-side, your arm brushing his every once in a while.

 

“Have you ever thought about working on cars?”

 

His looks down at you. “Can’t say that I have. I’ve never owned a car in my life, let alone worked on one. Don’t exactly need one when living in Brooklyn. The most driving experience I have is in war zones.”

 

“Before I left the factory, rumor was that they’re going to start making bigger cars to cater to families. That means bigger engines, which means a host of problems the factories won’t anticipate when they try to adapt the smaller engine. Cars will be popular, therefore cheaper, which might create a booming market in the next few years.”

 

“Huh.” He looks forward again, mulling on the idea.

 

“You don’t have to wear a tie, won’t be stuck inside, have minimal interactions with customers.”

 

“That’s not a bad thought.”

 

“Could be interesting to think about. If you think that’d make you happy of course,” you amend. “There’s no point in getting roped into a job you hate after surviving a war.”

 

“Hadn’t thought about it that way. I’ve been thinking more on surviving than being happy.”

 

“Thankfully that’s not something you really have to do anymore.”

 

Your eyes meet again, a revelation blooming in his. “Yeah, you’re right,” he breathes.

 

“I, uh. . . if it sounds like something you’d want to pursue. . . I’d be happy to teach you what I know. Let you get a feel for what it’d be like.” Immediately you regret what you’ve said - your mother would be horrified at how forward you were being.

 

Bucky stops walking which only makes you nervous as you stop with him.

 

“You mean it?” He doesn’t look displeased, rather earnest, actually.

 

You hum affirmatively. “An old friend from Terryville owns a garage in Queens. I’m sure he’d be okay with us stopping by and tinkering sometime next weekend. I can call him and check in the morning.”

 

“Okay, uh. . . yeah. Let’s do it.”

 

“Okay.” Once again, you are staring at each other in the middle of the sidewalk. You had a hard time grasping the fact that this twinkle in his eyes was new - surely that wasn’t because of you. . . right?

 

You start walking again, hoping you were right that your friend would let you and Bucky visit the garage. And you hope you could deliver on your promise to teach him. But that was a worry for another day.

 

“Well, this is me,” you come to a stop in front of your apartment building, circling to face Bucky.

 

“Oh, already? Uh. . .”

 

_ Shoot. I didn’t prepare for the end of a first date. It went by so fast, I didn’t have time to think about it. Oh jeeze, does he initiate a second date? Do I? If he even wants to see me again? Oh no, what if he tries to kiss me - I haven’t kissed someone in so long. Has it changed? How the f- _

 

He says your name and you try to emerge from the fog of your frazzled inner dialogue. “I, uh, this was-um.” He shakes his head before blowing out a breath. “Thank you. . . for tonight. I uh, I really enjoyed myself.”

 

“I did too,” you return, hoping to bolster his confidence.

 

“Can I see you again?” he asks sheepishly, head turned down, eyes peeking up through sinfully dark lashes. “Before this weekend in the garage?”

 

Without a second’s thought you reply, “I would really like that, Bucky.” 

 

A grin slowly spreads across his face, his posture already shifting. “You doing anything tomorrow night?” You shake your head. “Meet ya right here around six? I’m sure we can find something to do in the neighborhood.”

 

You can only manage a small nod, not trusting your voice to hide your emotions. Bucky takes the smallest of steps toward you, moving slow as if not to spook you. 

 

Your eyes are so riveted to his that feeling his fingertips against yours startles you at first. You relax, warmth spreading through your stomach as he grabs your hand. Gently, he kisses the back of it, just long enough to be amorous.

 

“See you soon,” he murmurs against your skin. Goosebumps ripple up your arm before he lowers your hand and backs away, seeming loathe to turn around.

 

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you croak.

 

“Goodnight, Sixth Floor.” 


	6. Operation: Sneakaround

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader gets a surprise in the office, with some help from Suzy.

“Well hey there you smitten kitten,” the sweet, curly-haired Dorothy purrs. **  
**

You scrunch your nose at the name, moving to take a seat at a table in the breakroom. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.”

“Now tell us Suzy is full of it and you haven’t seen this boy five times since Saturday,” Connie scoffs before sipping her glass-bottled Coca Cola.

Your unamused gaze turns to Suzy who says, “Sorry!” in a very not-sorry voice. “You’ve been coy all week about it, we are equally invested in this relationship. They deserve to know.”

“Excuse me, you’ve been on how many dates in the last week with this boy?” Charity squawks, taking her lunch out of the fridge.

“It’s actually been less than a week.”

“Suzy, how is that helpful?” you say through an exasperated sigh.

“Five out of the last six nights is what you said, right? Sounds pretty serious.”

“To quote her roommate: ‘He must be something special since this is the most she’s been out of the apartment since move-in day’.” You were going to kill Suzy.

You grind out, “I’m not introducing you to any of my other friends if you’re going to use them against me.”

“If I remember correctly, you claimed you didn’t have any other-” The ringing of a telephone interrupts her. “Damn it, that’s mine.” She scoots out of the kitchen and you can hear her pick up the receiver. You zone out of the other womens’ discussion for a moment to hear Suzy say, “Who is this? Oh, hiiiii. How did you- Uh-huh.”

Tall, dark, and gorgeous Frances brings you back to the topic at hand. “Newbie, you need to give us the scuttlebutt.”

“Uh, I mean… I’ve been having a really nice time with him.”

“Get out of here with that dodginess. Come on, give us poor single girls something to hang onto.”

“Honestly, we’ve just been getting to know each other. We’ve had good conversations over dinner, walked around the park, perused some art galleries. It’s… been lovely. He’s a sweetheart.”

A chorus of “awwww!”s fills the room.

“You know we’re going to ask you a million questions, may as well give us as many details as you can now.”

Resigned to your fate you lean back in your chair, mentally searching for harmless information. “Umm… he’s from Brooklyn. He served with the army, was in Europe for the last few years. Has sisters, both parents still alive. Was a good student and an athlete. From how much he talks about his friends, he’s extremely loyal. But that’s really all I’ve got.”

“Sounds like a real dreamboat.”

“Did he give ya a smooch yet?” Connie asks around a mouthful of sandwich.

“Connie.” You know your flat tone won’t do a thing to discourage her.

“That’s a no.” She continues in a sing-song voice, “Which means it’s co-ming!”

“He hasn’t been affectionate at all?” Alice, the tiny shy one pipes up.

“He kissed my hand after our first date and I’ve gotten a few pecks on the cheek when he drops me back home. Usually when we walk and cross streets he holds my hand, or at least offers his arm.”

“A gentleman. That must be nice,” Millie, the baby of the bunch at 19, snorts.

“Do you not want to kiss him?” Connie, ever the one to get straight down to business.

You look down, can feel your heart beating fast. “I-I, uh. I… of course I want to kiss him.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“There’s not a problem. You’ve all seen him, you know he’s handsome. The moment just hasn’t arrived yet. I don’t want to force it and get nervous or weird.”

“You’re making me blush, Sixth Floor,” a smooth, deep voice brings the lunch-time chatter to a halt.

You turn so fast in your chair you think you may have given yourself whiplash.

The subject of your conversation is in the threshold of the breakroom, one shoulder propped against the door jam, hands full of a stunning bouquet of your favorite flowers. Suzy peers over his shoulder, ruby-red lips curled in a satisfied smirk.

You leap to your feet, smoothing down your skirt and patting your hair. “Buc-Hi!,” you say, your tone slightly shrill with embarrassment. “W-what are you doing here?!” Your face drops, thinking back to Flannery’s two warnings about male visitors in the office. “You’re not supposed to be here,” you whisper-shout - as if the office manager would pop out from behind the sofa and catch you.

“Relax, Newbie. Flannery’s out at that executives lunch, remember?” Suzy steps even with Bucky, sharing a mischievous glance. “He wanted to surprise you so he enlisted the sneakiest dame to smuggle him in.”

“And I’ll forever be in your debt, ma’am,” Bucky banters, a cheeky grin in place.

Suzy eyes him up and down, then turns to look at you. “I like this one.” The room of women collapses into giggles at her brazenness.

“Watch yourself, Suze,” you playfully warn as you approach Bucky.

“For you, ma’am,” he offers the bouquet.

Breathing in the blooms you whisper, “You remembered.”

“‘Course I did,” he whispers back. “I called Suzy from the drug store across the street to see if the coast was clear. I wouldn’t just barge in with Mrs. Flannery on duty, I promise.”

“Well, are you going to introduce us to this delightful fella or not?” Dorothy titters.

You turn back to the room, flowers in one hand while the other sneaks into the crook of Bucky’s elbow. “Apparently you’ve met Suzy. But here we’ve got Charity, Frances, Alice, Millie, Dorothy, and Connie.” Each girl greets him in their own way, some smiling, some waving. Connie just stares at him.

“Ladies, this is Bucky.”

Connie lets out a small gasp. “Wait. Bucky  _Barnes_?”

“Uh… yeah?” You’re slightly unnerved.  _Do they know each other?_

“ _The_  Bucky Barnes?! Of the Howling Commandos?!” She’s on her feet, eyes wide.

You can feel Bucky stiffen beneath your hand before he shuffles his feet.

“Yes ma’am,” he replies lowly, directing his gaze to a fixed point on the floor.

Connie practically shrieks while several other girls’ eyebrows are raised, obviously affected by her words.

“Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh-“

“Connie, what are you going on about?” A wave of protectiveness washes over you, hand tightening on his arm.

“You have been going on dates with Bucky freakin’ Barnes and you haven’t known?!”

“Known  _what_?”

“The Howling Commandos! Captain America!” She gestures wildly at your indifference. “Have you been living under a rock the last few years?”

“No, I’ve been living in a factory the last few years. We didn’t exactly sit around discussing the paper,” you can’t help the bite to your words, not enjoying her tone or Bucky’s unease.

He clears his throat. “My last few years of service, I was in a special operations unit.”

“With Captain America!” Connie exclaims, practically jumping up and down. “He’s, like, his childhood best friend!”

The girls go into a frenzy, talking over each other to ask questions or give compliments. Unsurprisingly, Connie’s voice silences everyone else’s.

“ _So._  Is he single? Because he’s so cute, I really think we’d get along - I’m  _very_ patriotic and I-“

“I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s, uh- spoken for.”

“It’s the girl from the compass, isn’t it? I thought that’d be over by now. What if-“

Bucky interrupts her prattling. “Trust me - Connie, right? - that’s a bear you don’t wanna poke. It’s solid.”

“Oh.”

You had never seen Constance Adler deflate, but you’re pretty sure that’s what was happening now. She almost looks like a kicked puppy and normally you’d feel bad for her - if she hadn’t dropped a metaphorical bombshell on you.

“Bucky,” Suzy steps in, laying a hand on your shoulder, “We appreciate all you’ve done the last few years. Newbie, why don’t you show him your desk and find a vase for those flowers, yeah?”

You nod and tug Bucky out of the break room. Several steps down the hall you hear Suzy speaking in a hushed, stern tone she usually reserved for belligerent businessmen. Minutes ago, you wanted to strangle her for prodding you. But she was respectful of boundaries and definitely felt that one had been crossed. Now all you wanted was to wrap her in a hug of gratitude.

Your brain finally catches up to the new information you’ve just been given. Suddenly, Bucky made a lot more sense to you. Special operations meant specially horrible circumstances. Knowing now that he’d seen combat as well brought his struggles into sharp relief for you. And he had to handle everything in more of a public light than the average soldier.

“I’m sorry about that, Bucky. Connie can be … a lot.”

He shakes his head, rolls his shoulders. “Aw, it’s nothing. I’ve met worse.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes and your heart stings for him. “I was going to tell you soon, I swear. That’s not how I wanted you to find out.”

“You don’t owe me a thing. We can talk about it later.” You reach your desk and empty a glass that held your pens and pencils, swapping them out for the flowers. “These really are gorgeous. You didn’t have to do this.”

He nods, shoving his hand into his pockets. “I know. But I wanted to. Hoped they’d brighten your desk.”

“Thank you, Bucky. This was… incredibly sweet of you,” you murmur, even though you’re the only two in the bullpen.

Finally, his smile seems genuine. “You’re welcome.” He takes a moment to survey the office, coming to perch against your desk. “I’ve gotta admit, it’s strange being on this side of the glass.”

“It’s strange having you on this side of the glass. Not that I mind,” you add quickly, terrified of saying the wrong thing. A beat passes, Bucky staring at the floor, you staring at the flowers.

With the barest hint of amusement Bucky finally speaks up. “So, you think I’m handsome, huh?”

Bringing your hands to cover your eyes you let out a groan, prompting a manly chuckle. “God, that’s embarrassing.”

“Nah, I’m flattered really. It’s not every day a fella like me hears that from the prettiest girl in the room.”

“Okay, calm down, sweet talker,” you playfully nudge an elbow into his shoulder. “Ya know… you could’ve at least told me your best friend was Captain America,” you tease.

He tosses his head back in mock disgust, jarring a strand of hair loose. “To be fair, I did mention him on our first date. Several times, in fact.”

“Because I was definitely supposed to make the connection between your scrawny friend who was gravely ill his entire life and America’s Hope.”

“I’m disappointed, frankly. Seems like a pretty easy jump to me, ma’am.”

“How could I ever make it up to you, sir?”

“There is something I had in mind…” He leans in close. “Dinner tomorrow night?”

“I’m gonna have to check my calendar, Barnes,” you sigh, nose inches away from his. Those blue eyes search your own before they flit to your lips for a split second.

The moment is ruined when Suzy barrels into the room.

“Red alert, red alert! Flannery’s coming!”

“WHAT!” You shout, jumping away from Bucky. “She’s not supposed to be back for another 20 minutes!”

“Well evidently she didn’t enjoy herself because I saw her out the window of the breakroom. If Flannery finds out he’s here, she’s gonna bust your chops.”

The sound of grinding gears from the elevator shaft drives the point home. You look between Suzy and Bucky, frozen in your spot, mouth agape.

“I’m sorry, this was a bad idea-” Bucky starts.

“No time, hide! GIRLS OUT HERE!” Suzy immediately takes control. A stampede arrives from the breakroom in response to Suzy’s urgent tone. “Flannery is on her way up. We need to get him out of this office without her seeing him. Run interference, hide him behind you, I don’t care - under no circumstances can he be caught, capiche?”

A chorus of ‘capiche’ answers her.

“You,” she points in your direction, “stay at your desk so she doesn’t suspect you.”

_Ding._

The elevator doors sweep open before anyone can elaborate on the plan. Out the corner of your eye you see Bucky vault over your desk to remain unseen. Instantaneously a few typists congregate around you, the rest act as subtle “checkpoints” in a trail toward the stairs.

Suzy approaches Flannery, who stands ominously at the front of the office, suspicion wrinkling her forehead. “Flanny, you’re back!”

“Susan-”

“Aw, you know I hate my full name. How many times do I have to tell you to call me Suzy?” Your friend stands directly in front of her, blocking the view to your desk.

You lean down, catching Bucky’s eye. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, doll,” he winks up at you, then turns to crouch-crawl to the next desk.

“I assume as many times as I have to tell you never to call me ‘Flanny’,” you hear the office manager practically growl.

“Of course, yes ma’am. Lunch go good?” Alice and Dorothy converge to talk over a file to cover Bucky’s journey to the next desk.

“Lunch  _went well_ , yes.”

Dorothy waves Frances over, evidently needing her opinion on the wording of a letter. Sheltered behind their skirts they walk Bucky to Millie’s desk which happens to sit adjacent to an enormous filing cabinet. Your window washer ducks behind it, allowing the typists to shift around - doing their best to avoid moving like a herd.

“So why the rush back?” Suzy follows Flannery to the front desk, watching Bucky’s progress surreptitiously.

“I can only handle so much male arrogance in one sitting.”

“Oh, I hear that. Say, I think that mold may be back in the breakroom, I swear I saw a spot of something.” Suzy raises her voice, “Wanna come with me to check it out?”

Flannery sighs deeply, tucking her handbag into a desk drawer. “I suppose.”

This was it. Suzy continues jabbering at Flannery, walking side by side with her. She jerks her head toward the stairwell door and Frances whispers to Bucky, “Go, go, go!”

He’s on his feet but still bent at the waist, booking it to the door.

“Wait,” Flannery turns on her heel back toward the front. Everyone sucks a breath in, thinking Bucky’s been sighted. At the syllable he had dropped to his knees and slid across the floor - landing with his back flat against the front side of Flannery’s desk. Eyes wide, you watch Flannery stride to the desk, reaching beneath it to pull out a glass bottle. “The janitors gave me a chemical mixture they used on it last time.” She was mere inches from Bucky - if she had the super-sonar hearing everyone accused her of she would definitely have heard his heart beating out of his chest.

With the bottle in hand she takes a few steps back into the bullpen before taking stock of everyone’s tension. “What’s going on?” she asks. On his tiptoes Bucky creeps to the stairwell door.  _Just a few more steps and we’re home-free,_  you try to calm yourself. Flannery makes to turn back to the front; at that point everyone was certain your job was done-for. At the last moment Connie lets out a deafening screech.

All eyes are on her, including Flannery. Then she screams, “RAT!” Every typist in the room follows suit, insisting they saw it too, hopping up on their chairs or desks.

Bucky reaches the stairwell and with one more wink in your direction, he disappears.

You breathe a deep sigh of relief from your seat atop your desk. You turn to Connie and mouth  _“Thank you”_. She nods in return and says silently,  _“Sorry”._

“Ladies,  _ladies_! Calm down! It’s just an animal!” Your office manager is absolutely fed up with this day, with these women, with this job. Quiet descends on the bullpen. “What has gotten you all ridiculously hysterical today?” The stairwell door clicks shut, causing Flannery to spin in its direction. She scans the face of every person, looking for someone to break. Much to your satisfaction, everyone is stoic.

It’s in this moment that you find yourself genuinely glad to be in this office with these women. Every one stepped up to save your job, your livelihood. And everyone was excited about this new relationship once they saw how happy you’d been. If your adrenaline hadn’t been pumping wildly you might have had to hold back tears.

But then Flannery is walking up to your desk. She gestures to the flowers Bucky had brought you. “And where did these come from?”

Suzy swoops in. “Her mother called in to have them delivered, isn’t that precious of her?”

“Is today a special occasion?”

“No ma’am, just because,” you shrug, stroking a few petals.

Flannery hums in a tone that says she isn’t entirely convinced. “Alright Susan. Show me where you saw the mold.”

“Right this way, Flanny.”

The pair disappears into the breakroom and every typist slumps and groans.

“That’s all the excitement I need for the next week,” Alice pants, hand to her chest.

Charity throws a smirk in your direction. “Newbie, that boy is trouble in the best kind of way.”

“You’re not wrong, Charity.” You turn to the flower arrangement again. “You’re not wrong.”


	7. Family Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky has several meaningful conversations with the ones who know him best.

Ice cold water finally dislodges the last vestiges of sleep from Bucky’s eyes. Patting his face with a hand towel, he avoids looking himself in the eye as he checks the mirror for any patches of hair he may have missed while shaving.

He’s been awake for several hours but had finally dragged himself to the bathroom once the sun had risen. Being a weekend the house should be quiet for another hour or so before he had to put his “family face” on. But the moment the bathroom door creaked open the scent of Canadian bacon wafting from the kitchen proves him wrong.

For a moment he dons a tight-lipped smile until he sees his mother’s familiar form in front of the stove. His shoulders instantly drop, his mouth moving into a genuine curl. She’s humming along to the small radio on the counter, an old Standard that takes Bucky back to moments just like this when he was two decades younger. Mother and son were often the first to rise on Saturdays, leaving a rare pocket of time to be shared just between them.

Winnifred Barnes had hardly changed since those days - besides the gray streaking her otherwise dark hair and a few extra lines around her eyes. Although years of raising four headstrong children and worrying about both a husband and son in battle - albeit different wars - would do that to anyone. She was the most gracious person he knew, forever keeping their door open to anyone who needed some love and a home-cooked meal.

He takes his place to the counter on her left, grabbing a freshly washed peach from a pile of them and bringing it to the cutting board.

“Good morning, James,” she warbles as she slides a pan into the oven.

“Morning, Ma.”

“Did you sleep okay, dear?”

He lifts a shoulder up and down in a small shrug before he grabs a knife to begin slicing. “About as well as usual. Ya know, it takes a real master to sneak through the house without me knowing.”

“Where do you think you got your covert skills? Your father is about as subtle as a gun.”

Bucky snickers. “You’ve got me there.” He slides the cut peach onto a platter before moving on to the next.

“You came in late last night. I trust you got your new friend home at a respectable hour?” she asks coyly between flips of her spatula.

“Ma-” he starts, a blush creeping up his neck.

“No explanation needed, you’re a grown man, but-”

“Don’t worry, you raised a gentleman. Escorted her to her door after dinner. Didn’t feel like taking the subway so I walked home.”

“I never thought otherwise. Oop, you missed some shaving cream.” Winnifred brings the corner of her apron up to swipe at Bucky’s ear before resting a palm to his cheek. “I’m enjoying seeing this handsome face of yours without all that facial hair. And seeing you smiling more often has been a treat as well. I trust this friend is the reason for both?”

“Maybe.” Bucky clears his throat as he grabs another peach. “I like her a lot,” he admits quietly.

“Had a feeling when you asked where I bought my flowers for the table you had to be at least a little taken with her.”

“She loved them, by the way. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime, darling. I’m assuming you’ll see her again soon?” Kind eyes twinkle with a hint of hope.

“This afternoon, actually.” He gestures to a small carton of fruit. “Want me to slice the raspberries after these?”

“If you don’t mind. Then maybe get the coffee started?” she checks the grilling meat one last time before moving it to a plate, new cuts slipping into the pan moments later.

“Yes ma’am.”

They work side-by-side in silence for a while, humming tunes and bumping elbows every so often. These moments of peace were hard to come by in the house, but they both savored Saturday mornings cooking in tandem.

“If your father gets up, grab the paper and take a seat. Don’t want him getting onto you again. I can manage the meal by myself.”

“If he wants to say something about me doing ‘women’s work’ then he can. I don’t care. Someone had to help you with three other kids while he was in his study smoking cigars.”

“James,” his mother reprimands tenderly. “Despite his flaws, your father is a good man who has always made sure his family’s needs were met. Especially when you weren’t around. Oh!” she spins toward the oven. “My brioche!” Carefully she coaxes the pan of bread out of the oven and onto a cooling rack.

Bucky plates the last of the raspberries before moving to the coffee maker. “Well at least I’m around to contribute now. Being able to help with the bills and all.”

“We don’t really need your money, you realize that, right?”

“Whaddya mean? You said it was helpful.”

With one hand on her hip and the other resting on the counter, she turns to her son. “And it is, don’t get me wrong. But we are very comfortable. If you have an opportunity to be out and on your own, then I think you should take it. It’d be good for you. I think distance would be good for the relationship between you and your father as well.” Bucky hides his scowl behind a cough. “Besides, your youngest sister will be out soon, while Rebecca is looking into an apartment… we’ll need to downsize anyway. Promise me you won’t stay here for us?” A touch to his shoulder forces him to meet her eyes.

“Okay, I promise.”

A new, yet very familiar, voice enters the conversation. “What’re you promising this time, Buck?”

Bucky flashes a grin at his sister over his shoulder, “That you’ll pay our parents back for that vase you broke the summer of ‘29.”

If looks could kill Rebecca Barnes would have been a master assassin. She gives him a pinch to the arm before opening the refrigerator to bring out a bottle of milk. “I seem to remember you being left in charge that day, being the eldest and all.”

“Then you remember the absolute chaos of me trying to boss around three younger sisters.”

“Still, you were responsible for the household. A mistake Ma constantly repeated.” Becca smirks, hazel eyes shimmering with mirth.

Bucky would never admit outright that he had a favorite sibling. Having only two years’ distance in age was bound to draw them together as they grew older. Had it sparked many fights through their adolescence? Absolutely. But it was amazing what high school miseries could draw a brother and sister together. They’d spent last night on the back porch, Bucky telling her all about you over some booze he’d smuggled into the house. Becca was one of the few who didn’t treat him like a wounded animal after he’d gotten home from the war. They were able to slip back into their normal routine like they’d never missed a beat. She worried about him, but made sure to voice her concerns rather than watch him with a critical eye.

“C’mon, you have a big girl job now, you can afford to replace it.”

“Kids, that was over 15 years ago. Let it be.”

Becca mutters, “Jesus, we’re getting old.”

“Rebecca Louise!” Winnifred chortles in horror. “Watch your mouth.”

“Sorry,” she apologizes quickly, sharing an amused glance with her brother as he hands her a mug of coffee.

Another set of heels approaching the kitchen signals the next Barnes woman’s appearance.

“Good morning, Evie,” Bucky greets his youngest sister cheerily.

“It’s Evelyn, Bucky.” She fusses with the buttons on her dress before squinting in her brother’s direction. There was no questioning that she’d grown into a beautiful and intelligent young lady during his absence. The signature Barnes dark hair combined with creamy pale skin and bright blue eyes made for an arresting presence that commanded the attention of each room she walked into. Every time he looks at her he can’t help but see the 14-year-old he hugged goodbye before he left for England.

“I can’t call you Evie anymore? Why not?”

“It’s the name of a little girl, I’m almost done with high school now.”

“You’re still my kid sister,” he slid a cup of coffee her way as she sat down at the kitchen table.

“I’m not a kid anymore, Bucky.”

“So you’d be fine if I said you had to start calling me James now?”

Evelyn arches a brow. “If that’s what you wanted, yes.”

An elbow in the ribs from Becca interrupts his next statement before a knock on the front door sounds. “Come in!” all four of them shout toward the door.

“It’s me!” echoes the voice of the only Barnes child not currently living in their childhood home. Rose waddles into the kitchen, a hand resting on her protruding stomach. “Good morning, everyone.”

Each of them mutters their own greeting, ending with Winnifred kissing Rose’s cheek and rubbing her belly. “And good morning to my precious first grandbaby too.”

“Ma, you’ve got a good few months before you get to meet them.”

“It wouldn’t hurt for them to get used to the sound of their grandma’s voice, would it?” Rose giggles as she sits in her usual seat at the table.

“How ya feeling?” Bucky asks.

“Alright, I think. I can already tell this summer heat is going to be unbearable. Not looking forward to only getting bigger from here on out.”

With a warm smile and commiserating nod, Bucky brings the pot of coffee and platter of fruit to the middle of the dinette as Becca sets the table with plates and utensils. “Looks like the Barnes girls are all dressed up and rarin’ to go. What’s going on today?”

“Shopping trip! We need to find Evelyn a new dress for her graduation in a few weeks,” Rose gushes - unsurprising coming from the shopper of the family.

“Especially since Robert will be there,” Becca teases over the edge of her coffee cup. The three older women in the room titter mischievously while Evelyn blushes.

Bucky’s brow furrows as he grabs the plate of bacon from his mother before returning to his seat next to Becca. “Robert’s this boy you’ve been talking about, right?”

Evelyn rolls her eyes in his direction. “My boyfriend, yes.”

“Possible future husband too!” Rose squeals, even after receiving a gentle kick under the table.

The hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stands up. “Wait, what?”

Immediately Evelyn sits ramrod-straight, the clench in her jaw screaming defiance. “We’ve been dating almost a year, it’s not like he’s a stranger.”

“Yes, he had a very long talk with your father after dinner last week,” Winnifred confirms as she slices the loaf of bread into even pieces.

Bucky can’t completely choke down his scoff. “You’re just kids, way too young to be thinking about getting married.”

“You didn’t kick up a fuss when Rose was getting married right out of high school,” Evelyn takes the fruit from Becca before scooping a few pieces onto her own plate.

“For one, I was in the middle of Italy when Rose got hitched. And that’s because John was about to be shipped off to join me. S’different.” Bucky piles more bacon onto his plate than necessary, needing to keep his hands busy for fear that he might start wagging a finger at his baby sister.

“It’s totally normal for people to be marrying younger now. The war made us all feel like time’s running short. Who knows what can happen tomorrow. Why take the risk of not being together?”

Just as Winnifred shed her apron to join them at the table, George Barnes enters the room, presence tall and arresting. Everyone pauses to say their ‘good mornings’, receiving a nod and low grunt in return. Winnifred places a steaming mug in his hand before kissing his temple. He smiles small before unfolding the newspaper his wife had left by his plate. Once his glasses are in place he may as well be in another world. They all know better than to engage him in conversation before his first cup of joe.

“Ma, are you tryin’ to tell me you’d be okay with Evelyn getting married soon?”

“James, it’s not up to me. If Evelyn feels ready, we all have to respect that,” ever the peacemaker of the family, Winnifred takes her place at the opposite end of the table from her husband.

“How is he going to support you? Does he have any idea what kind of work he wants to go into? Are you prepared to look for a job if his isn’t enough for rent? ”

“Easy, Buck,” Becca says under her breath.

“Well, that’s not your problem to worry about, is it Bucky?” If Evelyn was attempting to hide the disdain in her voice, she was doing a terrible job. The patriarch of the family thunks his mug against the table before reaching for the pot to refill it.

“Dad, you have to admit that Evie getting hitched is a bad idea,” Bucky appeals to his father.

“Evelyn,” she grits out, cheeks pink.

“The way I see it, it’s one less mouth for me to feed. And as long as the boy has a good head on his shoulders and good intentions, I don’t see the harm.”

The youngest Barnes hums in satisfaction, serving Bucky with a wholly smug smile.

“You can’t be serious.” Bucky ignores another poke to the ribs from Becca.

“Well, James, by the time I was your age I was married with three children. By all accounts you’re the one who’s behind schedule with no prospects in sight.”

Bucky’s fist tightens around his fork. A kick to his ankle draws his attention to Becca, who subtly shakes her head; clearly trying to say, “Please not right now. It’s been a good morning.”

He huffs out a breath, thankful that his father’s eyes are still trained on the paper. “You may be surprised to know I’m not completely hopeless.”

Rose leans in and says slyly, “Now what does that mean?”

“Yes, James, what does that mean.” Bucky’s father has set the paper down, reading glasses dangling from his fingers.

 _Why did I open my fuckin’ mouth._  “I, uh-I have been on a handful of dates with a girl.”

“Ooooh, the secret comes out,” Evelyn teases, overjoyed at the chance to turn the tables on Bucky.

Rose claps, “That’s great news! Who is she? Do we know her? Is it that friend of Becca’s I always wanted you to date?”

Becca’s side-eye confirms he’s already painted himself into a corner. His mother stays blessedly quiet, keeping her promise not to discuss you with his father.

 _Don’t panic. Give ‘em broad details, they don’t need to know everything._  “She just moved to the city. I met her at work about a month ago. We got to know each other, had our first date last week.”

“What’s she like?” Rose questions around a mouthful of brioche.

“She’s sweet. Always had time to smile at me when we bumped into each other. But she’s also got a mind of her own.”

His father drains his mug again before setting Bucky with a hard gaze. “She’s not a working girl, is she?”

Bucky can feel Becca tense next to him, gaze staying fixed to her plate. “What if she is?” Bucky starts, outrage for both Becca and you on the tip of his tongue when Winnifred clears her throat.

There’s a warning in her gaze that does not translate to her sweet tone. “You should invite her over for dinner one Sunday night. I’d love to meet her.” The girls chime in their agreement, all three of them eager to see who finally caught their brother’s eye for the first time in years. “Speaking of Sunday dinner, will John be home in time to make it, Rose?”

Bucky took the shift in focus as an opportunity to take a breather while Rose prattles on about her husband’s government job and how his schedule was always changing. Thankfully the rest of the meal passes uneventfully, the girls gathering up the dishes to be washed promptly.

While the kitchen bustles to life, Bucky slips from the table to tie on his shoes before his father can make an attempt at conversation. He grabs a rusty toolbox from the floor next to the coat rack before popping back in to tell his family goodbye.

“Where you going?” Evelyn asks, a little too nosey for his taste.

“Steve’s.” Bucky gestures to case in his hand, “Gonna take his toolbox back.”

“Thank goodness,” Winnifred groans. “Hold on, let me pack him some biscuits and that strawberry jam he likes.” Obediently, Bucky waits as his precious mother tied up a handful of baked goods and a small jar of jam in a napkin.

“Bye, Ma,” he kisses her cheek. “Don’t hold dinner for me, I’ve got plans.”

“Going out with Steve and Peggy again?” Becca chimes in.

Becca knew full-well what his plans were. “No, I uh, have another date.”

Rose’s eyes grow as wide as the plate she’s washing. “With the same girl?”

Halfway out the front door Bucky hollers, “Uh-huh. You gals have fun shopping!”

“But Bucky-!” He hears as he firmly draws the door closed. He huffs out a sigh with a hand tugging at his hair before he starts on the familiar walk to Steve’s.

He berates himself for letting his father get under his skin enough that he let out the sweet secret of you. The last thing he wanted was his family nosing around his dating life before he was even sure of what this new relationship was.

It was too late now. He’d opened the door and an entire damn circus was charging through.

Letting his thoughts drift to happier things, Bucky reflects on last night’s date. You had looked exquisite in a maroon dress, lipstick the perfect matching shade. He’d picked out a simple diner for supper where you both admitted you felt much more comfortable. He kept his promise to share about his time serving in the military. Granted, he stuck to the most simple version, sparing you of the gritty details of blood, carnage, and capture.

You had been more merciful than he deserved. You read his cues well, changing the subject when he started getting emotional. Empathetic, kind - truly listening rather than waiting for your turn to talk. All he had to endure was a little teasing about Captain America being his closest friend. Even then, you were gentle. He’d walked you to your doorstep, lingering too long - trying to get his nerve up for a kiss. Disappointed in himself he settled for a peck to your cheek and hastily walked away, later commiserating with his sister over his jitters.

Before he knew it, Bucky was knocking on Steve’s door.

“‘Bout time you showed up,” Steve complains without a hint of malice as he opens the door of his apartment.

Bucky stands opposite of the blond, thoroughly unamused. “You’re the one who left your damn toolbox in our kitchen last week before up-and-disappearing for work. Well, you gonna stand there and let me freeze?”

“It’s almost May.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

Steve swings the door wide, waving Bucky in. “Thanks for bringing it back.”

“Ma’s been complaining about it being in the way for days, needed to get it out of the house.” Bucky sets the toolbox down in the living room next to a dilapidated dresser that was in desperate need of repairs.

“Sorry about that. How’s everything at home?”

“Alright. The girls are gearing up for Evelyn’s graduation. Dad is…Dad. By the way, Ma sent some biscuits for you.”

Steve smiles, peeking into the napkin before setting it down in the kitchen. “Strawberry jam, my favorite of hers.”

“Yeah, I’d say she knows you pretty well, ya moron.” Bucky grumbles, wiping a hand down his face. Steve notices he’s a little sluggish today, his walk more of a shuffle, the dark circles beneath his eyes more pronounced.

Steve knows he should mind his business.

But then again.

“Still sleeping on the couch?” Bucky nods. “Those cushions were uncomfortable when we were kids, I can’t imagine they’re better pushing 30.” Steve kneels by the box, rummaging to find the tools he needs.

“30 is almost a year away, I don’t wanna hear it.” Bucky takes up residence in an armchair close to where Steve begins to work.

Bucky likes Steve’s apartment. Forever army neat, Steve’s surroundings were kept meticulously tidy. The furniture was simple, utilitarian. He had what he needed and nothing more. The most ostentatious part of his home was the west wall of the living room that was completely taken up by bookcases. Floor to ceiling, left to right was all books. S framed wedding portrait of his parents hung next to the clock on the opposite wall, along with a snapshot of the Howlies and a photo of Steve and Bucky from their high school days. The home was in a good spot of Brooklyn, reminiscent of where they’d grown up; except much larger than what Steve had been accustomed to. Why he’d gotten a two-bedroom was beyond Bucky - Steve wasn’t exactly known for lavish spending. The SSR must pay Captain America well. If Bucky looked hard enough he could see hints of Peggy’s presence. The pillows on the couch, the tablecloth on the dining table, a rug set in the living room.

“The spare bedroom is still open, ya know. If the couch is killing your back.”

“I can’t afford rent right now.” Bucky pinches to bridge of his nose.

“You know that’s not a problem.”

“It’s a problem for me.”

“Stubborn ass,” Steve mutters under his breath.

Bucky only feels smug. “Says the pot.” He watches Steve wrestle a drawer out of the dresser before asking, “Where’d this thing come from, anyway?”

Steve exhales heavily. “Peggy saw it on a curb and thought it would go perfectly in my guest bedroom without considering why it was on the curb in the first place.”

“Why didn’t you tell her that? Why not her apartment?”

“I’ve gotta pick my battles.”

Bucky arches a brow. “Even when that lands you with a fucked up piece of furniture you’ve gotta fix?”

“Especially then,” Steve groans as he tugs another drawer free. The next time words are spoken is when Steve’s got his head in the interior of the dresser trying to discern why the drawers continued to jam. “You shaved.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re the fourth person to say that to me.”

With a shake of his head Steve emerges to grab a piece of sandpaper from the box. “Just different. Been a while. Can you give me a hand? Hold it still while I try to sand off this edge.”

He steadies the piece while Steve aggressively sandpapers one of the tracks. Resentfully Bucky mutters, “It hasn’t been that long.”

Steve pauses to look up at his friend. “Yeah it has.” Bucky grunts. “Don’t harumph me. You know I’m right.”

Quiet falls again as Steve works on, occasionally asking for Bucky’s help or thoughts.

This time Bucky breaks the silence. “I’ve been looking at other jobs. Trying to figure out what I wanna do when my GI benefits come through.”

“Oh yeah? What’re you thinking?” Steve’s moved the dresser to its side to address a crooked leg that set the whole thing off-balance. Bucky’s on the floor as well, back against the armchair waiting for further instructions.

“Maybe working on cars? Someone mentioned it to me and I think I might like it.”

“Huh, never heard you talk about that before.”

“It’s a new idea. One that has potential. Won’t be in an office, get to keep my hands busy. Be learnin’ something new.”

“Sounds almost perfect for you.”

“Could be. We’ll see. I’m gonna keep looking into it but it feels good to have some kind of direction to aim toward.”

Steve glances at Bucky with a glint in his eye. “You’re awfully chipper.” A beat. “Have anything to do with the girl?” Bucky says nothing. “Thought so. You gonna make me ask or are you going to volunteer?”

“I feel like you just asked.”

“Well you weren’t volunteering.”

Bucky leans forward, vaguely motioning to the bottom of the dresser. “I think this thing needs some more support, what if you added an extra beam here?”

“The date was that bad, huh?”

The misplaced sympathy finally forces the truth out of Bucky. “No. It was that good.”

Steve stills. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. We’ve actually been out a couple more times.”

Steve’s eyebrows fly up his forehead. “‘A couple times’? That date was a week ago and you’ve seen her again - several times - since?”

“Jesus, it’s not like I eloped, calm down.” Bucky can’t help prickling the tiniest bit.

“No, no, I…” he shuts his mouth, head bobbing. “That’s great, Buck. When’re you seeing her again?”

“In a few hours. She’s… the one who suggested cars. Gonna show me what she knows at a friend’s garage.”

“Where’d she learn about cars?”

Bucky can’t contain his smile. “Worked for Chevy during the war. Seems to know her stuff.”

“A mechanic? Sure could’ve used her when you stalled our jeep in Saarbrücken.”

“That was Morita and you know it. He’s always trying to fix things that aren’t broken. Speaking of idiots, thanks for telling DumDum about my date.”

“I–I, uh, what’re you talking about?”

“Don’t act dim, he called ahead at the restaurant and got us a special table.” Steve stutters several times in a futile effort to deny the accusation. “I thought better of you, flappin’ your lips like Old Ms. Johnson at the grocers.”

“I just-”

“What if that made her think I was some uppity snob?”

“Did it?”

“… no.”

“So no damage was done.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is?”

“Just-” Bucky groans in frustration. “No one else needs to know unless it’s more than a date. Okay? I don’t want people thinking I’m chasing skirts and not taking life seriously.”

“I get it. I’m sorry. I’ll keep it to myself until you want people to know.”

“Thank you.” The small moment of tension dissolves and eases back into their familiar rhythm. Steve secures the leg correctly and the two of them set the dresser on its feet. Bucky hesitates then mentions quietly, “I did have a small… episode… that night. She didn’t treat me like I was nuts.”

“You okay?” Steve nonchalantly wipes dust and dirt from the surface but Bucky can feel the concern he’s trying to hide.

“It was a short one. But she got me out of there and let me be quiet for a sec before trying to distract me. Almost felt like she knew what I needed. Even my folks don’t know how to handle me when I get like that.”

“Seems to be someone worth hanging onto.” Steve slides the drawers back into the dresser one by one, running smooth on their tracks.

Responding with a hum Bucky crosses his arms. Again, he sees you stand up from the dinner table, eyes soft with kindness. He remembers how the click of your heels on the sidewalk gave him something steady to focus on while trying to dig himself out of bad memories.

“So when do I get to meet her?” Steve is all tease, looking to get a rise out of his friend. The last thing he expects is Bucky’s one word response:

“Soon.”

Bucky ignores Steve’s incredulous look. “Fuck, I thought you were going to say no. Didn’t think you were there yet.” He grabs one end of the dresser, nodding to the other end. “Help me move this?”

Huffing, Bucky complies, the pair lifting the piece together. “Why are you so fuckin’ worked up about this?”

Steve raises an eyebrow as he walks backwards down the hallway. “Because the last time I met someone you dated I was 5’6 and 110 pounds soaking wet.”

“We were both very different people then.”

“No shit, ace.”

They set the dresser down in the spare room opposite of the bed, making the space a little less sparse, slightly more homey.

Bucky sighs, looking down at his hands. “She’s a good one, Steve.”

“That’s not surprising. She’d have to be if you wanna keep her around.” Hands on his hips in satisfaction, Steve eyes the dresser. “Peggy’ll insist on meeting her too.”

“Yeah, pal, that’s what I’m worried about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so patient with the arrival of this chapter! The extra week gave me the time I needed to muddle through some research-heavy chapters so I can hopefully keep the ball rolling with my scheduling. This chapter was a big one for me since it involved weaving canon and my original thoughts in regards to Bucky’s family. Once I realized Bucky’s museum display in CA:TWS listed him as the eldest of four, I couldn’t stop this specific family dynamic from coming out. Hope you enjoy this week 💕


	8. The Garage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader and Bucky finally have teachable and sweet moments in her family friend's garage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me all sorts of fits and is nerve-wracking for me to post. Mostly because I’m putting a ton of pressure on myself. But whatever. I also pulled a ton about cars from this helpful article (https://interestingengineering.com/4-differences-between-modern-and-older-car-engines) and this article (https://www.harlemworldmagazine.com/harlem-hellfighters-marching-on-fifth-avenue-1919/) was referenced for the Harlem Hellfighters. Let me know what you think?

Bucky checks your distinctive handwriting for what feels like the thousandth time, double checking the address of the garage. When he thinks he’s only got a few blocks to go he picks up his pace. There’s really no need to rush, he’s going to be on time. After seeing you in his dreams and talking about you all day, intentional and not, he really just wanted to be with you.

A freshly-painted white building comes into view, the numbers on your note matching the ones painted in red block letters on the side. There’s several driveways leading into the garage; even with the rolling doors down, he can still see a flurry of activity through their windows. On his way to the front door he passes shiny cars parked out front underneath a sign proudly proclaiming “Durst & Co. Automotive”.

Cautiously he enters the sparse waiting area, unsure where you’d be waiting for him. It’s clean, tidy, with bare-minimum furniture of chairs and a reception desk. Looking out a window leading into the work area he sees a large room filled with popped hoods, tools scattered, and workbenches covered in spare parts. After a minute of awkwardly shifting from foot to foot in the empty room he hears a roar of laughter from a door behind the desk. Checking his surroundings one more time he slides around the desk. Hoping the door leads to the actual garage and not something terrifying or inappropriate, Bucky takes his chances and pushes it open. The chatter and laughter grows louder. He hears your voice and suddenly his feet are moving to follow it.

 _Seems to be organized chaos,_  Bucky thinks to himself. Looks were deceiving because the activity inside hinted at a much larger operation than what he had expected. The cars he passes aren’t junkers, they seem to come from a solid, well-paying clientele. Cars are on lifts, some engines have been raised out of the bodies. . . the only thing missing was people.

He rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks. You’re leaning against a car that’s hood is popped, one saddle shoe-clad foot resting against its grill. Your stained shirt matches the bright red bandana wrapped around your head. Hands are in the pockets of your denim overalls, sass painted on your lips. Mechanics in coveralls surround you, attention arrested by your story.

Again, the garage is filled with howls of mirth - a reaction to a witty punchline, he’s sure. He can’t help but admire you from afar. You’re more relaxed than he’s ever seen you yet you still maintain an air of assuredness that holds its own among the group of men. A smile comes easy to your fresh face. All you really need is your sparkling eyes to highlight your naturally stunning self. And then those eyes meet his and the sparkle seems to intensify.

“Oh hey, Bucky!” You wave him over and then he’s encircled by strangers and a wave of uneasiness washes through him. All eyes are on him, obviously sizing him up. Bucky makes a conscious effort not to puff out his chest. “Boys, this is my. . . this is Bucky. Bucky, these are the boys.” He receives a litany of greetings from the large group to which he tries to smile and memorize all the names he can.

“Alright boys, back to work. Sassafras has distracted us long enough.” A gruff voice breaks through and prompts the other mechanics to drift back to their tasks. A man with a head of salt-and-pepper - well, mostly salt - steps forward, Bucky noticing a slight limp to his otherwise confident walk. “So this is the guy I’ve been hearin’ about.” He smiles a big, teeth shining bright white against his dark brown skin. Towering over you, he slings an arm around your shoulder in a familial hug.

“You’ve barely heard a thing, Harve,” you retort, leaning in to his embrace.

“Is that the way you’re supposed to treat an old friend when he’s doing you a favor? No. Your momma taught you better than that.” He turns back to Bucky, eyes wrinkling kindly behind his spectacles. “Harvey Durst.” His hand moves from your shoulder and h offers it to Bucky, who grasps and shakes it.

“Bucky Barnes.”

“Nice to meet you, Bucky. Heard you served, right?”

“Was in the 107th for a while, moved into special ops the last few years.”

Harvey tosses a thumb at himself. “Served in the 369th Regiment from ‘17 ‘til ‘19.”

 _That number, why is that number familiar._  “Wait,” Bucky’s brow furrows. “You were a Harlem Hellfighter?” Blatant pride beams from your features as you watch Harvey bob his head reluctantly. “My father’s unit was in France around the same time, he said y’all were tough as nails. Never lost a trench, right?”

“Or a man to capture or a foot of ground to the enemy,” the veteran recites, as if he’s spoken the same information time and time again.

“Colonel Chester Phillips always spoke highly of your regiment. You’re the stuff of legends, sir.”

“The same could be said about you, being Captain America’s right-hand man.”

Your eyes immediately drop to examine the floor while Bucky feels heat in his cheeks. Seems like Harvey had heard a thing or two. Clearing your throat, you step away from Harvey and slightly closer to Bucky.

“Just kept him out of trouble, mostly. Nothin’ special.”

“I hear that. I fought alongside Miss Sassafras’ Grandpappy in the trenches,” Harvey points to you. “Talk about bull-headedness.”

“Sassafras?” Bucky asks, eyes flitting to you as his apprehension gives way to a grin.

“Oh yeah. When she was a youngin’ and I visited to chat with William she was always gathering up sassafras flowers and bringin’ ‘em to me as a gift. Was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. Then she really grew into the “sass” part.”

“I’ll say,” Bucky directs his grin back to you.

With an eyeroll you explain, “My grandfather enlisted right before he would’ve aged out. He’d owned the shop way before the war, my mom practically grew up here. Harvey has been around as long as I can remember.”

“Only out of the kindness of your grandpappy’s heart.” Harvey shifts his focus back to Bucky in explanation. “Once we got shipped home, I was out of work and William offered to teach me his trade. He graciously passed the shop on to me when he retired. Thankfully the neighborhood put a lot of stock in William’s character so I wasn’t totally run out of business when I took over.” Bucky grimaces in sympathy.

“Good thing people had the sense to see a good man who does good work,” you mutter, a bite to your tone.

“Alright ‘Fras, don’t get worked up. It’s not worth it, darling. Almost all the other mechanics here are veterans, so if you ever need anything just ask. We’ve got each others’ backs here too, ya know?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Now,” Harvey’s voice drops an octave as he peers over his glasses at Bucky. “You keepin’ everything all honorable between the two of you?”

You choke on air before planting your hands to Bucky’s chest, urging him to take several steps back. “Thanks Uncle Harvey, we’ve got work to do, talk to you later!” Several more steps away and you groan. “Sorry about that. He can be a little protective.”

Bucky shakes his head, not sure whether he wants to laugh out loud or have the earth swallow him whole. It was a toss up. “‘Uncle’, huh? So he’s practically family.”

“I’ve known him my whole life. He’s not old enough to be my grandfather’s brother, too old to be my mom’s brother. Uncle just suits him best, ya know?”

“You didn’t tell me I was meeting family today,” Bucky teases, knocking a hip into yours.

“Steady on, he’s not technically family.”

He scoffs. “Technicalities.”

You face Bucky completely, taking him in for the first time that day. “Hi,” you hum.

“Hi,” Bucky practically beams. “Glad to see you again.”

“We were together less than 24 hours ago, huh?” Your lopsided grin whispers bashfulness. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

“Y’all gonna stand there giving each other googly eyes or are you goin’ to work on my cars?” a shout from Harvey reaches you both from his office.

“Mind your business!” You holler back before burying your face in your hands. Bucky can’t help but chuckle, his own relaxed state puzzling him. Seeing you a little embarrassed was more endearing than he thought it would be. “Anyway,” you perch your hands on your hips. “Let’s get you an apron and get to work. We’ll start with the basics.”

Passing a workbench you snag him an apron as you approach an engine that’s been lifted out of a car by chains. Trailing behind you, Bucky ties the apron strings and stops on one side of the machinery, you rounding the other side.

“How much do you know about engines?” you ask, zero judgment in your voice, only asking a basic question to find a jumping off point.

“Next to none. I know math and science are involved, which I’m okay at. But treat me like an idiot.”

“You aren’t an idiot, Bucky.”

“Never said I was. Just told you to treat me like one.” He winks at you which only earns a narrowing of your eyes.

“Anyway. . .” Your tone turns all business, motioning to the engine. “Cars have internal combustion engines, right? So it takes a fuel source, gas, and combines it with air. It compresses and ignites the mixture. A bunch of little explosions happen that cause these pistons,” you point toward a row of metal cylinders, “to move up and down. The pistons are attached to this crankshaft.” You move your hand to gesture the connection. “That motion makes the crankshaft turn. Then the crankshaft transfers that energy to the transmission, which ultimately powers the wheels to the car. Got it?”

“Got it. I think,” he amends, turning the process over in his mind, pieces falling into place after a few repetitions. “Okay, I got it.”

“Good. Now onto the fun stuff,” you smile a little wolfishly, signalling to Bucky that he was in for a long day of lots of information.

You run through the more technical version, explaining the physics and practicalities as well as the failings of the engine. Next, you explain what a tune-up would look like for a typical 1940s model. Soon you’ve drug him over to another car, making him clumsily replace the spark plug with your smaller hands guiding his. Next you set the mixture on the carburetor, fit new plug wires, and remind him these things should be checked on every 30,000 miles.

Currently he’s watching you struggle with a particularly rusty bolt, arm muscles straining as you finally break it free with your wrench. Your hair is a disaster, to put it kindly. Flying this way and that, becoming more untamable by the moment. But you’re so charming in this role of teacher that it only enhances your allure. Shaking his head, Bucky reminds himself to listen to your well-intentioned stream of information.

“What’s being produced right now are basically 1942s with tiny modifications. As you know, almost all production of civilian vehicles was halted in favor of supporting the war effort. So designers were stuck with getting something “new” on the assembly line as soon as peace was official. They’ve added some new body colors and a fancier bumper. We told them in the factory for years that they needed to seal the ignition so water can’t leak in and they’re just now starting to listen based on that brand new 1946 over there,” you wave vaguely behind you, nose still stuck beneath the hood.

“So what was your training like?” Bucky inquires, handing over a tool you’d asked for, hoping it was the right one.

With a hum you start, “My learning process was accelerated because of the war. It involved a ton of reading and studying, as well as a couple weeks of intensive training at a factory upstate. Usually a mechanic would need to find a shop where they could work at the lowest level doing the most rudimentary of repairs, like replacing the spark plugs like you did earlier. As they’re doing that they keep studying and move up through the system. Some people start at the bottom because they want to own their own shop or become a salesman. But most of the guys here just want to work with their hands and make an honest living doing something they don’t hate. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what it would look like for you to start down this track.”

Leaning back you gratefully accept the rag Bucky offers, rubbing some excess oil off your hands.

“Was this too overwhelming? I know I just threw a ton of information at you. Hope it didn’t scare ya. Here, triple check my work for me.”

Bucky bends to the engine. “Overwhelming, yeah. Scary? Not really. You replaced this belt, right?” At your assent his fingers trail over it, inspecting it’s fastenings. “It’s interesting work. Don’t really know how to move forward with it, if I’m being honest.”

“Don’t forget about the third attachment,” you remind as he starts to back away. “I think someone here mentioned that the V.A. provides job counseling to veterans.”

“I think you may be right. They tell you that stuff when you get discharged but at that point all I was thinking about was Ma’s cooking and hugging my sisters. Worth asking about though.”

A smile graces your lips. “I don’t blame you one bit. All good?”

“All good,” he affirms. With Bucky’s help you set the hood in place, propping your elbows on the surface to take a breather.

“Then that’s all I really had in mind for today. There’s a lot more but you’ll pick it up fairly quickly.” He thinks it’s only been an hour, maybe two at the most. Then he notices the shadows at his feet and realizes the sun is slanting through the garage windows. You must notice Bucky looking outside because you follow his gaze. “It can’t be sunset already. Have we really been here that long?”

“Guess so.”

You wipe the sweat from your forehead, leaving a giant smudge of grease in its stead. Bucky finds it too endearing to tell you anything. After a glance around the garage you say incredulously, “When did everyone leave?”

Bucky doesn’t remember when the garage had emptied either. Neither did he recall the shop becoming so clean - almost spotless. Someone had turned on a radio; the crooning of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet floats toward you from a neighboring table. The sound of Harvey shuffling around his office is the only other sign of life in the building.

“I feel like I’ve done a full day of PT,” Bucky groans as he arches his back. “Who knew leaning over an engine all day could hurt so much?”

“There’s one way to loosen up sore muscles,” you hint cheekily. You hold out a hand, waiting for him to take it. “Dance with me.”

He grips your fingers but resists your tug away from the car. “I dunno, I’m out of practice.”

“C’mon, it’s just a sway to a sweet song.”

Bucky hesitates. His last few attempts at dancing were more akin to a stumble than anything else. He can vividly remember his first night out on the town in a peaceful New York City. He can see the blonde who’d herded him to the dance floor, her grimaces as he crushed the tops of her brand new shoes. She’d been kind enough to his face but had excused herself only a minute into the song. He hadn’t danced since.

He gulps. “I might step on your toes.”

“That’s alright,” you shrug animatedly. “I may step on yours.”

There’s something so genuine, so earnest about you that he can’t help but follow your lead.

Timidly he wraps an arm around your waist, reminding himself to keep a respectful distance. Your other hand grips his bicep lightly as you step into him. This is the closest you’ve ever been to each other. Breathing the same air, sharing space. It should feel awkward. But it only feels right. His hand on your waist snakes further across your back bringing you chest-to-chest. You lean a head to his shoulder, respectful distance be damned.

 _S’just a dance._ He reminds himself.

Taking your suggestion, he simply sways back and forth to the tune. Shifting from foot to foot you follow his feet in a slow circle.

It’s effortless.

No one’s toes gets squished. In fact, Bucky feels like he’s floating on air.

You share a sweet silence. He looks down and notices your eyes are closed. If asked why, he wouldn’t be able to answer why his chest felt so tight.

He sighs your name, prompting your eyes to open. “I feel like I’ve known you a lot longer than a week.” The words slip out almost involuntarily, like an impulse. For a moment his chest tightens even more, afraid you wouldn’t react kindly.

You continue to gaze up at him and say softly, “Technically we’ve known each other longer than that.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah. . .” your voice goes even softer, “I really do.”

Fear releases its grip on him prompting him to pull you ever-so-slightly closer.

Neither of you know when the song ended but you are jarred out of your reverie when the radio host’s jabber breaks the spell. Moments later a new, upbeat song starts up.  _Sounds like Glenn Miller,_ Bucky thinks, foot already tapping to the bouncing trumpets and steady tap of the bass.

With boldness flowing through him like adrenaline he gives you a cheeky smile. “Let’s see if we have more than a sway in us, huh?” He pulls away from you only to give you a quick turn so your back is to his chest, arms connected and crossed over your stomach.

“What happened to being out of practice?” you sigh over your shoulder.

“Only way to be in practice is to practice, right?” Your only response is a giggle and you twirl away before coming back to him - feet flying across the concrete floor.

It is by no means perfect. Every once in a while you bump into each other or take a turn too hard. But your laughter soothes the hesitancy in him, reminds him that dancing isn’t about being perfect with someone, but just being with someone.

The song is swelling and muscle memory leads Bucky, sending you into spins over and over and over again, just enough to make you a little dizzy.

“Bucky, the oil-!” It’s happening before he can stop it. He’s spun you directly into a puddle left behind from a leak. Your foot flies through the slick, disrupting your already precarious balance. Down you fall - hard - taking Bucky tumbling with you to the ground.

He helplessly watches it happen in slow motion. Feels your woosh of breath escape when his full weight lands squarely on top of you. Rolling to the floor he scrambles to his knees beside you, words rushing out of him.

“Shit, I’m so sorry, are you okay, did you hurt anything? What a fuckin’ idiot, I shouldn’t’ve - are you alright?”

Your chest is heaving, doing its best to recover some of the air that had been knocked out of you. Slowly you nod in response to his question, lashes fluttering as you seem to steady yourself.

Then you’re laughing.

A deep, unbridled, straight-from-the-belly laugh that brings Bucky back down to earth, reassures him that you can’t be hurt too badly. It doesn’t stop there - he’s fairly sure you snort in the midst of your giggles but he’s too overcome with his own chuckles to be certain. Your joy is infectious and soon he’s out of breath himself.

As the laughter subsides his hand clasps yours to pull you up to a seated position, watching you closely for any signs of discomfort. You seem fine, maintaining the grip on his hand as you join the vertical world again. You’re smiling that small smile of yours. The smile that caught his eye in the first place.

Your thumb swipes over the back of his hand and it registers just how close you are. Close enough for him to see the depth in the color of your eyes. To see every individual eyelash, to count each freckle he finds.

In a similar fashion your eyes rove his face. No doubt thinking what he’s thinking, wanting what he wants.

“Can I kiss you?” he breathes raggedly.

“You better,” you gasp, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

Before he can lean down fully you’ve met him halfway, soft lips all his for the taking as your eyes slip shut.

Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss. A peck to the cheek, a smooch saying goodbye, a brief moment to show affection. Given freely, barely a blip on the radar. Kissing wasn’t something Bucky thought about often. He had enjoyed his fair share of kisses, sure.

But this. No other kiss has triggered the emotions swelling in his chest like this one. It’s almost as if he’s feeling sunshine on his skin for the very first time. Like a lamp has been lit in a room shrouded by black, glowing fiercely in darkness. Somehow he learns so much about you with this kiss. You’re soft to his chapped, pliant to his firm. Warmth to his breeze.

He leans back to catch his breath allowing his forehead to rest against yours. You hum contentedly, eyes still closed, mouth twisting sweetly.

“Hey lovebirds!” Startled, you jump away from each other. “I’m locking up, some of us have dinner waiting on us,” Harvey shouts from the office.

Grinning at your embarrassed moan Bucky helps you to your feet. “Since we don’t have dinner waiting for us, wanna catch a bite?”

With a raised brow you look down at your clothes. “I’m a mess and now covered in motor oil, no decent place would let me in the door.”

“Truly decent places welcome everyone.”

“Shut up.”

“Then at least let me buy ya a hot dog on the way home,” he compromises with a grin.

“No, it’s okay, my place is out of your way.”

“It’s almost dark, I’m not letting you walk home by yourself.”

“Bucky I can’t be that much of an imposition-”

He grabs a hand you’re waving wildly as you try to refuse. “Are you trying to get rid of me? ‘Cause it ain’t workin’.”

“Never,” you reply with a huff. “Fine.”

After your goodbye hug to Harvey, Bucky shakes his hand again before thanking him for his time.

“Get her home safe, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky ducks his head, fingers threading in yours.

Moving to leave the garage, Bucky stops you. “Hold on,” he snags a clean rag from a shelf. “May I?” he motions to your face. After you nod he gently wipes away the grease you’d relocated to your forehead during your work. He shows you the stain left behind, can’t stifle a grin when you look horrified.

“How long has that been there?” you ask incredulously then hold up a hand before he can respond, “You know what, don’t tell me.”

Spring may be on its way to summer but the evening still carries a light chill, tempting Bucky to keep you even closer than usual. Somewhere along the way you wrap your other hand around his arm, basking in the safety of being able to be this close to someone.

“I have a question for you,” he rasps.

“Yeah, Bucky?”

“Can I call you Sassafras now?”

“No.”


	9. Steve and Peggy Walk into a Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky decides it's time for the Reader to meet Steve and Peggy.

First thing in the morning the bullpen is already abuzz with squeals and giggles. The typists of the office huddle around their sweet friend as she holds out her hand, the square cut diamond sparkling in the morning light.

 

“It’s beautiful, Dorothy. Congratulations,” you purr, squeezing her fingers after perusing the jewelry close-up. 

 

“I’m assuming he asked you in an insanely romantic way?” Millie sighs, chin perched in her hands.

 

“Yeah, tell us the story!” Frances giggles. 

 

Dorothy settles into her chair, eyes shining. As she begins her tale Suzy leans in to you and whispers, “We’re dropping like flies around here. Alice last week, Dorothy today. And they’re some of the youngest. If you come in next week with a ring I’ll toss you out a window.”

 

You hide a smile behind your hand. “Relax, Suze. It’s sweet.”

 

“So sweet my teeth are gonna rot,” she grumbles. 

 

“Cynicism is not a good look on you.”

 

Suzy huffs and turns a dazzling smile to Dorothy as the remaining girls continue to ask questions. The two of you take steps toward your desk and Suzy sighs deeply. “All of a sudden people are marrying like there’s no tomorrow. Five years ago if people were getting hitched after courting for six months your parents locked you in your room until the vapors wore off.”

 

“Are you jealous?”

 

The redhead scoffs. “No, but. . . the change has got me. . .” she twists to you, the cynic having been replaced by someone much more forlorn. “It’s got me feeling like I’m behind, ya know?”

 

“Aw, Suze.” You take her hand in yours. “I get it. The war changed a lot of things, a lot of people.”

 

“Yeah. Guess so.” A moment passes before she clears her throat and takes her hand back, smoothing her skirt before she motions to your desk. “You’ve been busting your tail this morning. Why’d you get here early?”

 

“I’ve got lunch plans. Wanted Flannery to know I wasn’t shirking my job by staying out long. Would you believe she was here when I came in at 7?”

 

“Lord, does that woman sleep?”

 

“Unclear.” You both turn to watch the back of Flannery’s head bent over her desk, firmly ignoring the fuss over the engagement ring.

 

“Well. Hope you have a good lunch.” With a wink and a bounce of curls Suzy is gone.

 

Your fingers fly over your typewriter as you eye the clock, praying your boss doesn’t approach your desk with a new task before lunchtime. With a record number of letters typed, addressed, and sealed up you leave your swivel-chair spinning when your break begins.

 

Wicker basket in hand you savor the sunshine on your skin as you walk a few blocks to the building Bucky’s team is currently working on. You round the structure, lifting a hand to shield your eyes against the high sun as you look for your boyfriend among the people hanging off of the skyscraper. It’s almost laughable how much he stands out from the other men in his crew.

 

Where most of the boys are thin and gangly, Bucky is lean and formidable. His work was neat and efficient, an obvious routine to his movements. While you did enjoy your view from several stories down. . . 

 

Bringing your fingers to your mouth you whistle shrilly, causing every head to swivel down to you. You can’t decipher many of Bucky’s features but you can tell he’s smiling the same dopey smile he’d had after you’d shared that first kiss a few weeks ago.

 

Around the grin he yells, “What’re you doing here, Sixth Floor?”

 

“Bringing you lunch, Sergeant! Unless you’d rather me go,” you shout back, tossing a thumb over your shoulder.

 

“I’ll be right down.” You watch as he slowly descends, breathing a sigh when his feet safely meet the ground.

  
“Hello, beautiful,” a kiss lands on your cheek while he dries his hands on a towel.

 

“Hungry?”

 

“Starving.”

 

You toss him one end of a thin blanket you’d packed. “I’m assuming you’re not too good for a picnic?”

 

He catches it with a hum and mirrors your unfolding, settling it to the ground beneath the shade of a tree in the courtyard. “I dunno. My delicate sensibilities may be set off-balance.”

 

“Are your delicate sensibilities offended by sandwiches and fruit?”

 

“I think they can be persuaded to cooperate, unless you forgot the coffee.”

 

“You think I’m stupid?” you say as you pull the thermos out of your basket.

 

Arranging your skirt to maintain modesty you take a seat on your blanket. Bucky sits near before reclining to rest his weight on his elbow, body turned toward you.

 

“Today been okay?” you ask as he takes the wrapped sandwich you offer.

 

“Just like any other day. It’s blazing hot up there; one of the guys almost had a heat stroke.”

 

“Goodness, I hope you’ve been drinking water.”

 

His eyes soften as he replies, “Yes ma’am. By the way, I have an appointment with a local job counselor next week.”

 

“Bucky, that’s fantastic!” you enthuse, grabbing his arm.

 

“Fingers crossed he can help me figure out how to head towards being a mechanic.”

 

“I sure hope so. I’m proud of you for reaching out to him. This is a great start.”

 

Before you can ask why he’s gazing at you adoringly he asks, “How’s work been?”

 

“Busy. Our business year is almost done so our mail has been stacking up. Plus I’m pretty certain Anderson’s mistress broke up with him: he’s been in an extra testy mood. Oh, and Dorothy got engaged last night.” 

 

“I thought that happened last week?”

 

“No, that was Alice.”

 

“Hard to keep it all straight,” Bucky mutters as he guzzles his cup of coffee.

 

You can’t help a giggle. “That’s exactly what Suzy said. Dorothy seems happy, though.” Bucky only hums in thought.

 

The next several minutes are quiet, spent enjoying each other’s presence as you people watch and eat.

 

“Dinner tomorrow?”

 

“Mhmm,” you hum affirmatively around a mouthful of grape.

 

You sense a hesitancy in Bucky as he stares at his cookie. After a big gulp he says, “Do ya wanna do drinks after with Steve and Peggy?”

 

Your stomach drops. “You want me to meet them?”

 

“I do.”

 

A million thoughts stampede through your brain in the span of three seconds.  _ This is a big deal. They mean a lot to Bucky. These are his best friends. What if they hate me. What if I’m not good enough, what if one word from them means Bucky never speaks to me again? What if- _

 

“Only say yes if you want to, I don’t wanna pressure you-”

 

“No no no no,” you blurt, shaking your head. “I want to. It’s just. . .”

 

“Just what?” Words leave you, an empty silence hanging in their place. “Tell me,” Bucky nudges, hand tangling with yours.

 

“It’s an intimidating prospect.”

 

“Because of what they do? Really, they aren’t that big of a deal, just have jobs that-”

 

“Not intimidating because of who they are. But who they are to you, Bucky.” His eyebrows furrow, so you continue. “Steve has been your lifelong best friend and you’ve been to war and back with Peggy, literally. I’m honored that you want them to meet me but at the same time. . .”

 

“Wait -” he leans back. “Do you think they aren’t going to like you?”

 

“There’s always a chance-”

 

Bucky had the nerve to laugh - not a laugh of derision, but genuine disbelief. “Not a chance in the world. Steve knows you’re special. He knows me better than I know myself, he’s seen how I’ve been since you. And Peggy. . . she may be a harder sell. But that’s got nothing to do with you. It’ll go fine. Okay?” And with his fingers running up and down your arm, who are you to question him?

 

“Okay.” You shove half a cookie in your mouth to stave off the urgent impulse to run away.

 

\------

 

“They’re late because they already hate me right?”

 

Bucky scoffs, leaning his elbows onto the table in the back of the club. “How can they hate you when they don’t even know you? I already told you, Steve called before I left to pick you up. Something popped up at work and a meeting was going to run long. They should be done right about-” he checks his watch, “-now. They’ll be here soon. But to me it sounds like you’re complaining about getting extra time with me.”

 

You shove at his arm and grumble, “Oh shush.” All he does is chuckle. The band playing loudly from the corner does little to calm your nerves. Every few minutes you pat down your hair for flyways and make sure your dress isn’t wrinkled. You twirl the ring on your right hand over and over before Bucky’s hand stops your fidgeting with a gentle touch.

 

“You okay? I’ve never seen you like this before.”

 

“Just because I may always seem confident doesn’t mean I am. Few people get to see me with the jitters.” You slant your eyes to his. “Consider it an honor of yours.”

 

He opens his mouth to presumably soothe you before something over your shoulder  catches his attention. “There he is.” You turn as Bucky stands to greet Captain Steven Rogers and suddenly you understand why Connie is such a fan.

 

You’d seen the posters and pictures of him in uniform but seeing him sport a suit and tie was another ball game. Somehow his golden hair shines bright under the dull lighting which also cast a beautiful shadow across his broad shoulders. He seems impossibly taller with every purposeful step to your table, jaw set in a firm line. 

 

But then the biggest smile washes across his face as he steps into Bucky for a hug. As men do, they pat each other on the back and part - suddenly Steve’s attention is all on you. Blue eyes so similar to Bucky’s grow warm.

 

“It is so nice to finally meet you,” he offers his hand. “You’re all he’s been talking about.”

 

You laugh and grasp his hand, introducing yourself. You glance to Bucky, worrying he’d be bothered by the admission of him discussing you. He’s remarkably at ease, shoulders dropped, face relaxed.

 

“Where’s Peggy?” Bucky asks.

 

Steve gestures dramatically as the three of you take your seats. “She was pulled aside for a private meeting on our way out the door. But she shouldn’t be too long.”

 

“Never thought you’d be the one in a relationship with work-life balance,” Bucky jabs.

 

“And you never miss an opportunity to badger me about my work.”

 

“Yes, I’ve heard you two are quite the pair,” you look between the two men.

 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Oh, we’ve got some stories.” As he dives into a story involving a rock mysteriously hurtling through the window of the Barnes’ family home you can’t help but be a bit shocked.

 

His presence commands attention but his demeanor is overtly disarming, daresay gentle. With a boy-ish charm he animatedly tells the story, strongly disagreeing with Bucky’s adjustment of details. You were expecting a hardened war hero, rough and tumble with scars to show for it. This extremely young man was the last thing you were expecting to walk through the door. You feel a peace settle over you as the men tell their childhood story in tandem.

 

Bucky gives you a moment of eye contact and his lips twitch to a smile.  _ Not so bad right? _

 

The delightful verbal sparring is interrupted by three giggling women - well, girls. They bounce up to the table, looking barely old enough to be allowed into the bar. Gushing about Captain America this, Howling Commandos that, they talk over each other getting louder by the moment. Steve smiles tight and you take note of how much his posture has shifted. Shoulders squared back, adjusting his tie every few moments. Several autographs later the women are finally guided back to their table by a helpful waitress.

 

Viscerally experiencing a shift between Captain Rogers to Steve to Captain America had you reeling. Seems the duty of being America’s Golden Boy came with some steep costs. Minutes later the same waitress reappears, apologetically placing a drink to your table.

 

“A Commando cocktail for you sir, from the same three ladies.” Steve sighs and pushes the drink to the middle of the table, decidedly ignoring the eager glances of the gaggle of girls across the room. “May I refresh anyone’s beverage?”

 

“I’ll have a Sidecar and she,” Steve points to the empty seat next to him, “will have a whiskey, neat.”

 

“Make that two,” Bucky adds. 

 

You indicate that you’re still working on your first before eyeing the gifted drink between you. “The Commando cocktail. . . did your special ops team have a drink named in your honor?” you ask, perplexed.

 

Bucky moves his head from side to side. “Could be us. Could have a different meaning. I hope to God it’s not us, you’d think someone would have the decency not to mix bourbon and absinthe in our honor.”

 

Steve changes the subject to avoid any more embarrassment on his part. “I hear you’re a mechanic,” he leans in with interest.

 

“Was,” you correct. “Now I’m just a secretary.”

 

“A typist,” Bucky corrects you in turn. “And I’d say your skills are still pretty up-to-date.”

 

“Updated enough to do a house call? My Harley’s been making a funny noise, maybe you’d be able to fix it,” Steve says with a chuckle.

 

“I’d love to take a look at it. Is it high-pitched or low? The vibrations in motorcycles tend to knock the batteries dead fast.”

 

Steve does his best to smother how impressed he is behind his drink. 

 

“Don’t know what good fixing it will do ya Steve, you’re just going to end up throwing it at something again,” Bucky scolds as he takes his own sip.

 

“Doing. . . throwing. . . what?” You ask.

  
Steve blushes, moving to answer when Bucky interrupts him. “This guy has thrown more bikes at enemies than days I spent as a POW. Just ‘cause you’re strong enough to toss ‘em doesn’t mean you should, pal.”

 

A clipped British accent floats over your table. “Don’t tell me you two are at it again over those motorbikes.”

 

You turn toward the voice and realize you had not known the definition of intimidation until you’d seen Peggy Carter. She almost perfectly matches Steve’s earlier confident stride except for the click of her heels. After a full day of work her makeup was flawless, accompanied by chestnut hair curled to perfection. High-waisted trousers followed a perfect line to her feet - paired with her simple white blouse and she was one of the most stunning women you’d ever laid eyes on.

 

The three of you stand as she arrives at the table. “Bucky, always lovely to see you,” she gives him a brief hug before turning on her heel to face you. There’s a sharpness to her gaze as she quickly looks you up and down. “Peggy Carter, pleased to finally meet you.” The handshake you share is firm, inspecting. Just like that, every defense you’d relaxed with Steve was right back in place.

 

“It’s really nice to meet you, Peggy.” She nods once and narrows her eyes slightly before turning to Steve.

 

“Hello, darling,” she hums to him with a subtle touch to his arm.

 

“Did your meeting go okay? Looked intense,” Steve pulls Peggy’s chair out for her before she sits and Bucky does the same for you.

 

“Bureaucratic nonsense, I’m afraid. I’ll fill you in later,” brown eyes cut to you and Bucky before giving a miniscule shake of her head. “Now what were we discussing?”

 

“We were talking about the ace mechanic at the table.” Was that a hint of a brag you heard in Bucky’s voice? 

 

“Ah, yes. I heard of your time working in the factory. Do tell us more,” Peggy says breezily before sipping her whiskey.

 

You share the same story you’d shared with Bucky on your first date - though slightly less eloquently. While Steve reacts encouragingly and asks questions, Peggy sits in relative silence. Every time you turn her way, she’s watching you. Anyone passing by the table would just see someone listening; you could see the analysis rolling through her mind.

 

Once the conversation shifts you feel a warm hand gently resting on your knee for the briefest of moments. A sweet, _ It’s okay  _ gesture from Bucky while he reminisced of their days overseas. Mere weeks into this and he could already read you like a book. Then again, reading each other was what started this whole thing, wasn’t it?

 

“. . . don’t you think?”

 

The awkward silence prompts you to shake out of your thoughts and glance around the table, everyone looking at you expectantly.

 

“I’m sorry, say again?”

 

Peggy drains her glass before setting her steeled gaze on you. “I was just observing that working with some men can tend to be draining. Have you shared that experience?”

 

You nod, choosing your words carefully - just as carefully as the question had been posed.

 

“I believe some men have difficulty accepting that a woman might be more knowledgeable in their field, due to their own presuppositions. I had hoped the way women stepped up to work during the war would have been celebrated but it only seems to have threatened the men that came back. I do hope that changes over time.”

 

She hums and adds a small, “Indeed” while Steve gives a sympathetic smile. “And how did you come to find out about Bucky’s war record?” The suspicion in her voice is minute, but still detectable.

 

“He had mentioned serving in Europe on our first date, so I knew he was a veteran. I didn’t find out about the. . . special operations until about a week later. One of my coworkers put two and two together when Bucky visited work one day and spilled the beans.”

 

Bucky grins in Steve’s direction. “She’s a big fan of yours, Stevie. Practically said she’d marry you on the spot.” Once again, Steve’s cheek dust pink. 

 

“For which I apologized to Bucky for. It was mortifying. And unfair to have that reveal sprung on Bucky with no warning.”

 

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky insists, hand finding yours under the table.

 

Abruptly Peggy stands, prompting the two boys to jump to their feet. “I’m going to powder my nose. Would you like to join me?” she directs your way.

 

“Umm. . .” Bucky catches the hint of panic in your eye and tilts his head.  _ What’s the worst she can do? _ “Sure. Could use some freshening up myself.”

 

“Lovely. Excuse us, boys.” Peggy leads the way through the clusters of people, past the bar to the restroom. The door clicks behind you and you’re afraid Peggy will be able to hear how fast your heart is beating. She rummages through her handbag for a moment before settling herself in front of the mirror. You take a position to her right, utilizing the other half of the mirror. 

 

Uncapping a tube of lipstick Peggy expertly applies a fresh coat to her already rose-petal-red lips. Even the way she applied makeup was daunting. And you can’t shake the feeling that she’s waiting for you to speak first.

 

 You clear your throat as you brush your fingers through your hair. “Thank you for taking the time to meet us tonight. I know how important you and Steve are to Bucky.”

 

“Hmm, yes, it’s our pleasure. They are very important to me as well. Both of them.”

 

_ Oh boy. _

 

“The three of us have been through a war together, after all. You don’t come out of that without feeling a certain level of loyalty. I believe Steve and I share a concern for Bucky’s wellbeing.”

 

“Have I done something to make you particularly suspicious of me?”

 

As she turns to you, her softened features take you by surprise. “Whether he admits it or not, Bucky is an attractive, semi-notable public figure who happens to be attached to an extremely public figure. I wouldn’t put it past a woman to use Bucky to try to get close to Steve. Girls have tried before.” She checks one pin behind her ear before stepping to the door again.

 

You blink several times before responding. “And you think I’m one of those girls?”

 

“Not anymore.” She takes a few steps back to you. “My main concern for him now is the fact that he’s. . . in a vulnerable place. The war left many soldiers trying to find their footing. I want to make sure he doesn’t get tipped over in the process. I’d hate for him to feel any unnecessary pain if I could have headed it off from the start.”

 

“I. . . I do care for him, Peggy.” You face your reflection again, hands resting on the sink. “I had absolutely no intention of becoming romantically involved with someone. And then he was so kind to me in an environment where men have been. . . less than kind. Everything I learn about him draws me in closer. The last thing I want to do is be a source of pain or volatility.”

 

With a shaky breath you search for eye contact again, finding a new warmth emanating from hers.

 

“Well, I suppose we can work with that,” she offers as she opens the door. The tense air shifts and you give a small smile as you pass through the door and begin to follow her back to the table.

 

You are just stepping around the bar when a feminine “That’s okay, really. . .” catches your attention. Following the voice, your attention is drawn to a young couple standing by the bartop. Although every moment they were starting to look less like a couple and more like a man with wandering hands. The girl tries to step back which only results in his meaty hand fisting into the side of her dress and pulling her chest to his. Based on her expression what the man had to say was less than proper. She struggles to step out of his grip which only seems to tighten the more she wiggles.

 

You’ve had enough of that. 

 

You detour from the route you and Peggy had set toward the table. Peggy picks up on your absence and turns to watch you curiously.

 

“Excuse me,” you state more than ask. One pair of panicked eyes and another pair of glazed-over ones come to rest on your face. “Is everything alright here?”

 

“Ev’things swell, sweet dish. We’s just having a lil talk.” 

 

_ Yeah, that’s what I thought. _

 

“Is that true, Miss?”

 

“Um, I- I’m-” she attempts to squeak out before the man bellows again.

 

“Was my word not good enough for you? You tryin’ ta grandstand your feminine chops for some cool cat?”

 

“I was speaking to Miss-” you turn expectantly towards the girl who’s looking younger by the minute.

 

“Cartwright. Helen,” she whispers.

 

“I was speaking to Miss Cartwright so if you’d please take a step back, sir.”

 

“I don’t gotta do nothin’ you tell me to.” You pull Helen behind you which only makes the man more belligerent. He starts yelling less-than-appropriate words and soon his anger rounds on you. 

 

Drawing up to your full height you stare the man dead in the eye. “Is this the way you treat all women? Or just the ones smaller than you?”

 

A giant hand wraps itself around your forearm, jerking you towards him. “Now listen here bitch, I-” Before he can finish his drunken thought, perfectly manicured fingers clutch his wrist. He’s violently pulled away from you, arm pinned behind his back - his face making intimate contact with the bartop. 

 

“Now now,” Peggy coos. “That’s no way to treat friends of mine. Seems like you need a moment to cool down.” The brute strains against Peggy’s grip, a foot kicking back every so often. You land a spiked heel directly to the top of one of his feet, digging in for good measure when his howl of pain can be heard over the tune of the band. “Thank you for that, dear,” Peggy says, clearly enjoying the situation. A scuffle is heard behind you but you’re too focused on making sure the boar doesn’t hurt Peggy to pay it much mind.

 

“Looks like you two have things handled, but could I be of assistance?” Steve strides next to you, honeyed voice contrasting sharply with his stern gaze.

 

Peggy blows a puff of air at a curl that had fallen in front of her eyes. “Would you mind escorting this gentleman to the curb? I believe fresh air is in order.” 

 

“My pleasure.” With the back of his collar fisted in Steve’s hand the bully has no choice but to have his face unceremoniously unstuck from the bar and pushed toward a back entrance. Peggy follows closely, speaking in the man’s ear the whole way out, waving off a pair of security guards. 

 

You can feel Bucky’s presence but turn your attention to the now-shaking young woman, bringing your hands up to her arms. “Helen, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

 

She shakes her head. Tears hang stubbornly in her eyes, fighting not to show how shaken she really was over the ordeal. 

 

“I’m sorry he put his hands on you. Do you have anyone you can call?” She nods, reaching for the purse hanging off of her wrist. “That’s great.” Your eyes drift to Helen’s waist. “Oh dear. Looks like you didn’t make it completely unscathed.” 

 

Helen’s gaze follows yours before she lets out a dismayed sigh. “I just picked this dress up from the cleaner’s yesterday.” She fingers the ripped fabric of her dress. Now tears are flowing freely.

 

“It’s only ripped on the seam, that can be fixed in a jiffy.” You look over your shoulder at Bucky and ask him to retrieve your light coat from the table. He’s gone and back in a flash and you drape it over Helen’s shoulders. “Take this to cover up on your way home. Let me find a pen and paper and I can write down the information for my favorite seamstress in the city. Her prices are fair and her work is solid.” A scrap of paper and a pencil are produced from your purse and you add your information at the bottom. “In case you need anything else while you’re in the city,” you explain as you hand the note over.

 

“How can I get your coat back to you?” Helen asks as she buttons it closed.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” you dismiss. “It’s almost summer and I was due for a new jacket anyway. Just stay safe, okay?” You wipe a few leftover tears from her face and nod in encouragement as she heads to the phone booth by the entrance.

 

“Are _you_ alright?” Suddenly you’re hyper-aware of Bucky’s close proximity, his hand gently raising up your forearm toward a lamp on the bar.

 

“Um, I think so. He grabbed me pretty good but it shouldn’t be too bad.” You rub the area the drunk had gripped and hiss softly at the tenderness of your skin. “It’ll heal.”

 

“I guess I don’t need to tell you that was incredibly stupid?” Bucky attempts to sound nonchalant but the slight edge to his voice gives him away.

 

“Probably not. But it’s better this than something even worse happening to Helen because I ignored it.”

 

“My God, there’s another one of him.” You both face a newly arrived Peggy who is taming her curls, Steve not too far behind.

 

Bucky grumbles, “Evidently.”

 

“That took an exciting turn. What say we cut a rug to forget that jerk?” Steve steps to your side. “May I have the honor, ma’am?” He asks, offering a hand to you.

 

“Me? Oh, sure.” You settle your hand in his lightly, looking to Bucky for his confirmation. He quirks his mouth to one side, nods subtly.  _ He’s harmless. _

 

As Steve gives you a simple twirl onto the dance floor you notice Peggy in Bucky’s arms a few couples away and you can’t help but wonder what they’re discussing. As you and Steve move around the room Peggy speaks steadily, Bucky hanging onto every word.

 

“You alright?” Steve’s deep voice snaps your attention back to him. He’s watching you empathetically.

 

“Just been a bit of a rockier night than I expected,” you say with a half-hearted chuckle. You catch yourself relaxing in Steve’s arms - not the way you did in Bucky’s, obviously. But there was still a soothing sense of security coming off of Steve in waves. “I pictured this going much differently.”

 

He breathes a laugh as he spins you out and brings you back in. “It’s going about as I expected, except I wasn’t the one causing trouble tonight. Thanks for that.”

 

A genuine smile breaks your sobriety. “Just hope it didn’t ruin yours and Peggy’s opinions of me.”

 

“Hardly!” he says with glee. “I already knew I would like you and the bit at the bar probably sealed the deal for Peg.”

 

“Really? Because I got the feeling she isn’t my biggest fan.”

 

“Ah, she’s just protective and tough. The first time she got really angry with me she grabbed the nearest pistol and fired four shots at me.” Steve laughs at how comically wide your eyes grow. “I deserved it. But there’s a lot of love and care beneath the cool gazes and harsh tone.” He catches your eye and clears his throat. “Although I’m not the one who told you that,” he whispers conspiratorially.

 

A grin overtakes your face. “Thanks for that. Makes me feel a little better.”

 

“You’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s driving you crazy not being able to hear what they’re talking about right now, huh?”

 

You sigh, the pair of you circling around where Bucky and Peggy are in both your sights. “You’re not wrong.”

 

“Did Bucky ever tell you the specific effects the serum had on me?”

 

“Made you super strong, super fast? That’s the gist of what I got.”

 

“To accompany that, all my senses are heightened. I can smell my favorite bakery across the city, can read signs a mile or two away. And,” he looks down at you mischievously, “I can hear just about every conversation in this room.” 

 

“You can? That has to be insanely overwhelming.”

 

“It was for the first few months. Then I learned how to tune certain things in and out. You wanna eavesdrop with me?”

 

You shake your head, “Oh, I don’t-umm, I’d hate to pry.”

 

“You don’t have to. I’m going to.” Oh, you really like Steve.

 

Steve turns you so he has a clear view of his best friends and seems to focus intently beyond your shoulder.

 

“Peggy said something about being careful how quickly he moves forward with you. Bucky just asked Peggy why she was trying to scare you away earlier. She says she was testing your resolve, which stood up better than she expected,” he spares a glance to you, “Bravo to you on that. Peggy says she admired your action with the young woman at the bar. Bucky’s not surprised that you stepped in when there was trouble . . and now they’re just talking shit about me, which is their usual topic of discussion. Did that help?”

 

“It did. Thank you, Steve.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

Quiet follows for a few bars of the song, your brain mulling over the whole night.

 

After another turn Steve asks, “You haven’t met the family yet, right?”

 

“Right. Bucky’s dodged the subject more than once. I haven’t pushed it.”

 

Steve grimaces. “I can’t really blame him. I love the Barneses like they’re my own, but they can be overwhelming sometimes.”

 

“So I’ve gathered. Honestly, all I know is that he has three sisters and that was only shared in a few asides.”

 

“Three sisters, all younger. Becca, Rose, and Evelyn. He’s close to his Ma and Becca. Him and Rose don’t have many issues, mostly because they never spent a lot of time together. Things with Evelyn are strained because she’s turning into an adult and Bucky is having a hard time letting her. And his father. . .” Steve weighs his words. “His father is old-fashioned and always will be. They don’t get along.”

 

“Sounds like that’ll be a fun meeting.”

 

“When the time comes, you’ll do great.” Steve was so earnest in his reassurance you couldn’t help but believe him.

 

“May I cut in?” you turn to Bucky’s voice, glad to see him smiling.

 

“Only if you trade for this gorgeous partner of yours,” Steve teases, mocking a bow to Peggy.

 

“Oh sod off,” she scolds as Steve pulls her close while the band begins playing a new song.

 

You nestle into Bucky’s side with a hand tucked in his, relishing in the ease of a moment alone together.

 

“You good?” Bucky whispers when the song has almost come to an end.

 

Pulling back, you match his amorous gaze. “Yeah. I’m good.” A soft kiss meets your temple and you practically melt further into Bucky.

 

“Thanks for coming tonight.”

 

“Thanks for asking me.”

 

“Try not to be too much trouble next time, huh?”

 

“No promises, Barnes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, the Commando Cocktail was an actual drink on the Stork Club's menu! Thank you for patiently waiting and being so kind. Hope you enjoyed!


	10. Steps Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky pushes himself to do things that are in the best interest of his future while struggling with his relationship with his youngest sister. Also, wouldn't dealing with party line service suck?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So appreciate your kindness! Hope you can appreciate this chapter. It was finished with a migraine, so I apologize for the less vigilant proofing. It's an information-heavy piece, but necessary for future chapters. Don't worry, I included cute moments and fluff for ya.

Bucky crams two fingers into the collar of his dress shirt, tugging at it for an attempt at relief in the sweltering New York heat. Pushing open the door to the skyscraper housing the VA’s Regional Benefit Office in Manhattan, he steels himself for this meeting. There were few things he hated more than dressing up in a monkey suit. 

_As soon as this is over I’m burning this tie._

The office is overflowing with men dressed almost exactly the same as him. Every seat in the waiting room is taken, presumed veterans stand elbow to elbow in what available standing room is leftover. There had to be at least 20 of them crammed into the small space. Fighting every instinct to turn tail and run from the room radiating nervous energy, Bucky politely checks in with the secretary before finding the last unoccupied spot by the window. This was a good thing. A step in the right direction _. . . right?_

He can’t help but inspect the window’s cleanliness, noting that the brushing technique was sloppy, leaving streaks behind. Gazing beyond the glass he imagines you working in your office today completely focused on your work. Wishing he really was watching you while he washed windows he remembers the huge smile on your face when he’d shared the news that he’d finally gotten this job counseling appointment. The thrill that lit up your eyes, the pride when you squeezed his arm. . . that was reason enough to stay put and wait.

After reading a spare newspaper entirely and watching what felt like every other person on earth walk in and out of the office, his name is finally called. He nods and steps forward to indicate that he indeed was James Barnes before following the weary man with the clipboard. 

“Carl Baines, nice to meet ya. Alright Sergeant Barnes, how can the Department of Veterans Affairs help you today?”

“I, uh, was told I could get job counseling.” Following the man’s lead, Bucky sits opposite of the man, his desk piled with paperwork between them.

“That is correct. We have a questionnaire you can fill out that will give us a sense of direction on what you have an aptitude for,” the employee was already rifling through files, opening and closing drawers before placing a stack in front of Bucky.

“Sorry - I already have an idea of a job, I just don’t know where to start. Can you help with that?”

“Oh,” he blinks. “Yeah, you’re the first person I’ve talked to in days that’s said that. Uhh. . . what’re you thinking?”

“Working with cars?”  
  
“Okay, I can steer you in the right direction. Hold on.” Swiveling his chair to the filing cabinet behind him he mutters to himself as he cards through various files. “Automotive service, here we go.” The file lands on his desk with a  ** _plop_**  before he’s flipping through it. 

“Alright, looks like there’s lots of options. Best place to start is by picking up service manuals from manufacturers - they crank them out every year for mechanics to stay up-to-date, your local shop may have a few around. Manufacturers also usually have training courses if you agree to work for them. There’s also a lot of training conferences held if you get a job at a garage first. The library might even have a couple film rolls on auto mechanics. Looks like there are a few evening classes the public school system is offering. Another option is a private trade school where you’d stay until your training was complete. Or you could take a correspondence course, work in a shop at the same time, theory and practice together is always a good idea. Thoughts?”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to blink. “Uhh. . .”

The man smiles apologetically and leans back in his chair. “Sorry. I understand that was a lot. We’ve been so busy, I forget to slow down sometimes. But the VA is offering to cover tuition for college or trade school up to $500 per year. Book, supplies, all of that is covered too. Plus you’ll get a cost-of-living stipend so you can focus on getting through school or training.”

Bucky nods, the idea of a future right in front of him somehow both thrilling and paralyzing. “Wow. Okay. Where’s the nearest trade school?”

“Let me check,” his finger trails down a list. “New Castle School of Trades, Pennsylvania.”

“How long would I be there?”

“Most schools are condensing their programs because of the influx of students. Maybe six months?”

Bucky is already shaking his head. “I don’t think I can be away that long.” He knows he can’t be away from you that long.

“It says here that they have a correspondence course. You’d receive assignments from instructors through the mail. You could finish in the same amount of time and only have to be there for a month of training halfway through the program. And they recommend finding a job a garage in the meantime. I have a friend who’s a mechanic and from what he says it pays to learn as much as you can as fast as you can. It takes constant studying, but you’ll be ahead of the curve if you work at the same time.”

“Okay,” Bucky stares at his hands folded in his lap, trying to think quickly. He didn’t want to be away from you, Steve, or his family for any length of time, but one month was better than six. And the sooner he could start something of his own, the better. “I think that’s the way I wanna go.”

“Let’s make it happen. Here’s an application for their school, get it in the mail as soon as possible so you can get started. Here’s a letter to attach stating that the government is covering all charges. While you’re here, I can get the paperwork started for your cost-of-living stipend.” More paperwork is pushed around the mess of a workspace as Carl pulls out a checklist. “You never enrolled for unemployment benefits, correct?”

“No, I was able to find a job pretty quick.”

He checks a box, “Okay. No dependents?”

“No.”

Another box is checked. “That combined with your service record will be about. . .” Carl slides a finger across a graph before tapping the paper twice, “$75 a month while you’re training plus an additional two months after you’re gainfully employed. Sound okay?” Bucky opens his mouth to answer but Carl didn’t give him the chance to respond. “Also if you’re looking for funds for a business or home, you’re eligible for a guaranteed loan whenever you apply, zero down with low interest. Lots of people are leaving the city and building houses on the outskirts of the city. It’s probably just a phase though. Any questions?”

“Not right now.”

“Well if you do have any, you’re welcome back anytime. We’re here to help.” Carl stands before shoving a pile of paper into his hands, simultaneously herding him toward the door. Next thing he knew Bucky was back in the waiting room that didn’t feel any less crowded. Thinking only of escape, Bucky doesn’t stop moving until he was outside the building.

Looking at the mess of paperwork he held, he sighs.

“One step at a time,” he whispers to himself, hearing your voice in his mind.

\----

“How could the class sizes have grown so much since we graduated?” Bucky mumbles in Becca’s ear, pressed together in the masses of families seeking seating for the high school graduation ceremony. Baffled by the sheer number of people, he was quickly realizing the goal of everyone sitting together was futile.

The Barnes family shuffles through the crowd, searching in the chaos of the Brooklyn Stadium. Even being head-and-shoulders above most of the crowd Bucky couldn’t shake nerves ticking away in his chest. When they do find a clear bench in the stands they quickly discover the five of them don’t have a chance to fit together.

Rose gasps in dismay, “Oh, and I promised to save Robert a seat. If it was just us I’d say we could squeeze together but between when John gets here, my belly, and Robert. . .” she lays a self-conscious hand to her ever-growing midsection.

Becca gently grabs her sister’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, y’all take these seats. Bucky and I can find a spot together somewhere else. We’ll meet you afterwards.” George and Winnifred having long ago taken their seats, Rose joins them - sitting strategically to save seats for Evelyn’s beau and her own husband.

The idea of crawling over people to cram into a seat with little-to-no way to exit swiftly made Bucky’s anxiety heighten. Before Becca can move up the bleachers she catches her brother’s eye, catching the subtle tilt of his head toward the bottom of the stairs. Their remaining family being thoroughly distracted by the hubbub of the event, they weren’t noticed as they move down and away from the dull roar of the crowd several yards away from the bleachers.

“You alright?” Becca probes. Not taking his tight nod for a good enough answer she asks quietly, “Too many people?”

“Yeah. Still don’t like loud, crowded places.”

“Makes sense,” she says, more to herself than to Bucky. They stand together and people-watch, making comments about peers they recognize from their old high school days or teachers they couldn’t believe were still working 10 years later.

Before long their brother-in-law joins the family in the stands, sending a wave their way before kissing his wife on the cheek. But then a young, rail-thin young man approaches the Barneses, sheepishly accepting their warm welcome.

“That him Rose is fawning all over?” Bucky nods toward the situation. Becca cranes her neck before nodding affirmatively. “God, he looks 12 years old.”

“Bucky.”

“And he’s older than her?”

Becca narrows her eyes in his direction, “Only by two years. He’s just about finished his teaching training, should be able to start working in the fall.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t sound so unimpressed, you were the one bent out of shape about him having a good job. Teachers are in demand, you know that.”

Bucky rocks back and forth on his heels “How have I not met the kid when they’ve been dating for almost a year?”

“You only got back around the holidays.” 

“But Evelyn only brings him around the house when she knows I’m not going to be there. Why?” 

“Could be a coincidence.”

“You’ve turned into a shit liar the last few years, Becs.”

After a good-natured elbow to his ribs, Bucky’s shoulders relax ever-so-slightly.

“Evelyn’s gotten under your skin, huh?”

“I just don’t like it.” A hand makes contact with the back of his head and he jerks to face his sister, her face glowing with stern righteousness. “What was that for!”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m lost.” Bucky hold his hands up in surrender, not even sure what he’s surrendering to.

“As much as Evelyn doesn’t act like it, your opinion matters to her. Plus she doesn’t want you scaring him off.”

“If he scares easily he’s not good enough for her.” Bucky shifts his feet, eyes zeroing in on the gangly boy sharing a laugh with his mother.

Becca scoffs at him. “Have you seen yourself when you’re trying to be scary? Let alone when you aren’t trying? He’s a solid guy, Bucky. Give him a chance.” 

A sigh escapes Bucky before he makes an admission. “The whole family has gotten to know him. I know y’all like the kid and don’t have a problem with them getting married, but-.”

“You’re hurt that you haven’t been given that chance.” Bucky tries to protest but is quickly shushed by his sister. “I get it. You and Evelyn are too similar for your own good. Show her a little respect in her choice, give her the chance to make a good choice.”

Bucky can’t formulate a reply before the ceremony commences, the long line of graduates marching out onto the football field. The event is efficient for a such a large class - a record-breaking class at that-, even after the family cheers and whistles as Evelyn Barnes receives her diploma early on. The moment the ceremony comes to a conclusion hoards rush to their graduates on the field, whereas the Barneses hold back, waiting for Evelyn to find them.

George, Winnifred, Rose, John, and Robert gravitate to the spot where Bucky and Becca had watched with pride. 

“Well, our girl did it,” George gives a rare smile as Evelyn finally pushes through the crowd so the family converges together at the same moment.

“Congratulations, sweetheart!” Winnifred wraps her youngest in a delighted hug.

“Thanks, Mom. Hi, Rob,” Evelyn blushes deeply and accepts a kiss to the top of her capped head from her beau.

“Proud of you, Evie.” Bucky sidles up to give her a hug from the side before facing Robert, Evelyn’s panicked face causing a twinge in his heart. Becca was right. He has been too harsh on her.

“Bucky, right? I’ve heard wonderful things about you,” Robert extends a hand, delivering a surprisingly confident handshake despite the sweat developing on his brow.

“Likewise.” Bucky says with forced optimism. This is why I was a soldier and not a spy, he thinks ruefully.

\----

“So you actually approve of Robert?” Even over the phone Bucky can practically see the surprise on your face.

“Can’t believe I’m saying it, but yeah. Becca gave me a whole speech before I met him, made me back off of the protective brother bit slightly.”

“Oh, only slightly?” you tease.

“Yeah. Turns out Becca was right.”

“I have a feeling I’m going to get along with her.”

His heart flutters at the idea of you anticipating, even looking forward to, meeting his family. “Anyway,” he sighs dramatically, adjusting his grip on the phone before observing New York City bustling outside the phone booth. “How was your day, Sassafras?” 

The sound of your groan crackling through the receiver triggers Bucky’s grin. “Don’t you even start with me. Between you and Anderson-”

A strange voice laced with an Irish accent abruptly enters the conversation. “Is anybody on the line?”

Bucky holds the mouthpiece away to avoid deafening you with a bark of laughter.

“Yes, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy,” you breathe with exasperation. “We just started talking.”

“Oh. I see. Well I need to call my sister, dear - with the weather getting so warm I’m worried about her and-”

“Okay, okay, we won’t be too long, I promise.” Even in your frustration you remain kind, a quality Bucky was beginning to deeply admire.

He hears a tell-tale  _ **click**_  before you sigh. “The joys of party line service. What was I saying?”

“Something about your boss.”

“Oh yeah. He’s been in rare form this week. I’m starting to wonder why he’s the executive and I’m the typist when I’m drafting the original letters myself.”

“You have been pulling a lot of long days this week.”

“Apparently his time is better spent in the file room with the new secretary which sticks me with all the work,” you spit out bitterly. “And he gets to take credit for my flawless products, the pig. He makes my skin crawl.”

“Because he’s a corporate-climbing jerk or for another reason?”

“Well. . .” your hesitant voice hints at something else. “He’s forward and brash while being underhanded at the same time. It’s. . . unsettling.”

As Bucky opens his mouth to question further another click sounds off and the now-familiar lilt echoes back through the handset. “Is the line open now?”

“Still here, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. I’ll be off in a few minutes.”

“You can’t tie up the phone line all day, young lady.”

“We all pay for the service. Check again soon.” Bucky bites his lip to contain his amusement at your firmness. A car horn goes off for several seconds, drawing the attention of several passers-by.

In confusion you ask, “Where are you calling from?”

“Payphone outside of Steve’s.”

“You’re paying that much for this call, Bucky? Jeeze I would’ve stopped talking ages ago, I’m sorry.”

“S’alright. Worth hearing your voice. I know I sound like a lovesick teenager, but not seeing you for a few days has been hard.”

“I know. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Any news today?”

“Yeah, I got my first assignment and textbooks for my training course.”

Your squeal makes his heart grow two sizes. “How exciting! Have you looked through it?”

“Not yet. Wanted to give it a good look when I had time. Also got my stipend in the mail.”

“That’s gotta feel good. When’re you going to give your window washing team notice?”

“I dunno. Don’t wanna leave them high and dry.”

“That was a horrible pun, Barnes. But I’m sure the boys can handle it.”

“We both know that’s debatable,” he revels in your giggle. “I better go chat with Steve.”

“You still haven’t talked to him?”

Even though he knows you can’t see him, he waves a flippant hand. “Nah, but it’s Steve. It’ll be fine.”

“And you’re sure about all this?”

“Very sure.”

“Okay. Hope it goes well. Tell me all about it tomorrow?”

“See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.” Before Bucky can hang up he hears Mrs. O’Shaughnessy once again, “Well he sounds handsome.”

Your unbridled laugh sends warmth through his chest as he replaces the handset and exits the booth. A block later, Bucky knocks on Steve’s door, army rucksack over his shoulder.

“Hey Buck,” Steve greets, eyes quickly flitting from the bag, to Bucky’s hands, before meeting his gaze.

Bucky gives a smug grin, holding up the envelope with his stipend nestled inside. “Spare room still open?”

“Nope.” Panic grips Bucky, that being the last thing he expected to hear. “Never was a spare room. Been yours from the start.”

Breathing out the fear, the brunet groans. “You’re a real jerk.”

“I know. Come on in.”


	11. Ebbet's Field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get to experience your first ball game at Ebbet's Field with a die-hard Brooklyn Dodgers fan.

“You’ve honestly never been to a pro ball game before?” Bucky eyes you as he hands over two tickets to the Ebbet’s Field worker who waves you through the turnstiles.

Brooklyn Dodgers fans swarm around the two of you, the number of people surprising. The late June heat is near-stifling and you find yourself grateful for your sundress and hat; sweat had already broken out on Bucky’s brow as he adjusts his suit jacket. At least he had a hat to try to ward off some of the sun. A ballpark wasn’t your first choice of location for a Saturday date but Bucky had been so excited to introduce you to the team and sport he loved, you couldn’t refuse.

“Nope, never. My hometown is pretty small and Dad wasn’t interested.”

Bucky’s hand finds its way into yours before he grins at you. “Well, then. Guess it’s my job to make sure you get The Dodgers Experience. Let’s get you a hot dog.”

The smell of sausage wafts toward you from the concession stand. Each step forward is announced by the distinct crunch of peanut shells beneath your feet. While waiting in line, you turn and catch sight of the field for the first time. Chalk lines indicating foul territory are fresh; you note the players warming up on the field make an extra effort to avoid stepping on the white. The vibrant expanse of green grass spreads much further than you had expected. You couldn’t imagine how anyone managed to hit a small ball far enough to launch out of a park of this size, though you know it was not unusual.

Bucky turns to you in line and states matter-of-factly, “There are three important things you need to know today: we love the Dodgers, hate the Yankees, and are in a bitter rivalry with St. Louis - who we are playing today.”

You hum and muse, “I bet the games against the Yankees are intense since fans are all here in New York.”

“Oh, we don’t play them during the regular season. We’re in different leagues.” Bucky then steps up to the stand, ordering you hot dogs and a bag of peanuts.

Narrowing your eyes, you squint at him dramatically. “That doesn’t make any sense, why do we hate them if we never play them?”

He thanks the attendant and hands over your food, leading the way toward your seats. “It’s the principle of the thing, they take up New York fan real estate. You’re not wrong, though, the World Series games we’ve played against them have been pretty ugly. Plus, they’re from the Bronx. What could be worse?”

Following as he begins to descend giant concrete steps down toward the field you ask, “Isn’t there a third New York baseball team?”

His chuckle floats back up to you. “The Giants are in last place, they’re not a problem.”

“Okay, why are we in a rivalry with St. Louis?”

“Been neck-and-neck all season,” he says as he motions you down the narrow row to your seats close to third base. “People are already saying it’s gonna be either us or them in the World Series.”

“Isn’t it a few months early for that?” you follow his gesture before plopping onto the small chair that was marked the same as your ticket. The wooden seats were painted royal blue to match the team’s jersey colors, offering a bright pop in the stadium. Sitting down made you realize how crowded the seats were; thank goodness the idea of being close to Bucky wasn’t an unpleasant one.

“It’s all about the long game. Four months will fly by and every game counts.” He settles into his seat beside you before digging into his ballpark meal. “Alright, how much do you know about the game?”

You narrow your eyes at your boyfriend. “I’m not dumb, Bucky. I played street ball as a kid. You try to hit the ball with the bat, run the bases, make it to home plate to score points.”

“Runs,” he mumbles around a mouthful. You tilt your head in confusion before you bite into your hot dog as well. “They aren’t points in baseball. You score runs.”

“Ugh,” you roll your eyes. “You’re that kind of fan.”

“A dedicated one? Yes, yes I am.” He offers a smug smile as he chews which only prompts you to slap his shoulder in good nature.

“More like an obnoxious one.”

He takes great offense to that and blurts out, “Baseball has been part of my life for as long as I can remember! Whether it was with my family or just Dad, this field has always been a happy place. It’s one of the few places Dad and I got along.”

You let the weight of that admission settle before you get a laugh out of Bucky when you moan over how great the hot dog tastes, soon after he affectionately slaps at your hand when you reach for the bag of peanuts in his lap.

“That’s who you wanna keep your eye on today,” he points to a player standing between second and third base. The stout man scoops up a ball tossed from the first baseman, easily throwing it back in a laser-straight line. “Pee Wee Reese. Best shortstop in baseball right now.”

“Pee Wee? Please tell me that’s a nickname.” 

Bucky nods before continuing, “He’s gonna be in the Hall of Fame one day, I guarantee it. He missed three seasons serving in the Navy. As soon as he stepped on the field again, we all knew we had a shot at the Pennant. A lot of the players served in the war, but things are finally getting back to normal.”

“Sure seems like it.” Again, the dull roar of the crowd milling around the stadium registers with you. You turn in your seat, mentally counting the large number of people just in your section.  “There are _so_ many people here, a ton more than I thought there would be.”

“I read something last week that said they’re on track to double their attendance from last year.” His gaze settles across the field, though he’s definitely not paying attention to the activity. “I guess watching baseball doesn’t really feel like a guilty pleasure anymore. People can really enjoy the game again rather than always thinking about the worst thing that could happen.”

Before you can respond, the crowd shuffles to their feet for the national anthem and the reading of the rosters before the teams take the field, Dodgers in their gray and blue home uniforms on the field, the Cardinals in brilliant red and white jerseys at bat. The game begins amid the encouragement of the crowd.

Minutes into the game the Cardinals already scored two runs, to which the Dodgers responded with their own two runs during their share of the inning. The spectators were raucous, booing St. Louis’ success and losing their minds in excitement for their home team. It was easy to get caught up in the fervor of taking every play, every out seriously. 

You tried not to be obvious about it, but you couldn’t stop watching Bucky. In an environment that by all means should be chaotic, triggering, and at the very least, bothersome, he couldn’t be more at home. His posture is nonchalant even in the cramped space; an arm tucked across the back of your seat, legs spread comfortably. You couldn’t remember a time in your short relationship when he’d been this chatty.

That’s when it strikes you that Bucky is completely in his element. This crowd, these noises, this environment - they weren’t sudden or jarring to him like they were to you. It was familiar. Homey, even. So far he’d only shared fond memories of the place; but even he could admit that it wasn’t the fanciest park in the world. Your heart swells at the easiness of his tone, the confidence in his speech. He looked truly like himself; like a much-younger, carefree Bucky. You loved it.

As if he can feel your eyes on him, Bucky leans into you further before clearing his throat. “Did I ever tell you about the game Steve and I saw in ‘41?”

At the shaking of your head, he continues. “Five years ago, we were here for a game against Philadelphia. The crowd was restless because the Phillies had just tied up the game. Pete Reiser, our left-fielder,” Bucky points out the outfielder closest to your seats, who was poised on his toes, ready to head in whichever direction the ball headed. “He was up to bat. Now, the Phillies’ pitcher had hit Reiser with a pitch just the month before, almost caused a fight on the field. Anyway, our bases are loaded, and all we’ve got is this 22 year old who is barely out of his rookie season.”

A spark ignites in Bucky’s eyes as he mimics a swing, “Next pitch, Pete puts everything into his swing - sends the ball sailing right over the outfields’ heads. All the runners that were on base scored. Reiser wasn’t the fastest of the bunch but I’m telling you, he was flying like a bat out of hell. His coach on third base waved for him to keep running for home. The outfielder finally gets the ball into the infield, the infield throws the ball home… Pete hit the ground for a slide - and he scored.” 

Bucky’s animated antics had you smiling, completely enraptured with his story. “An in-the-park grand slam, the first one I had ever seen - hell, the first one almost anyone had ever seen; it hardly ever happens. You should’ve heard it in here, it was at least 10 times louder than it is right now. I thought we were going to bring the stadium down with how loud we were screaming.” A grin takes up his entire countenance before he lets out a laugh. “I remember Steve got into a really bad coughing fit right after, he almost turned blue. He couldn’t breathe for shit, but he sure was noisy.”

You both dissolve into giggles, mostly due to you imagining poor Steve hacking up a lung while Bucky watches on with a laugh. Surely there couldn’t be a much clearer picture of their friendship.

Moments after the Dodgers score yet again, Bucky shouts out to a man walking up and down the stadium stairs, yelling something about food. “Can I get two boxes of Cracker Jacks?” Coins are flipped and boxes are tossed, and before you know it you’re both ripping into your respective packages. “What toy did you get?” he asks as he scrounges to the bottom of his carton.

You pull out a small plastic figurine, brilliantly blue. “How appropriate, a baseball player swinging a bat. What’d you get?”

Bucky finally manages to get his hands on the prize. “A… bright orange cowboy? Come on, I wanted a Dodger player too!” Not being able to stop your bark of laughter at his childish whine, you pluck the toy from his fingers and replace it with your own.

“There, you happy?”

“Well now you’re stuck with the dumb cowboy,” he quips, winking gratefully as he pockets the prize before grabbing a handful of the treat. “I owe you one.”

“I think I’ll survive, thanks.” You dig into your own snack, the caramel crunch delightful after your salty meal. “How’re your courses coming along?”

“Tough, but good. Really getting to the meat of it now. Feel like I spend almost all my time studying.”

“I’m proud of you, Bucky.”

He turns from the game, wrinkles around his eyes softening ever-so-slightly. “Thanks, doll.”

“Back at your apartment Steve mentioned you were still washing windows. That true?”

“Mhmm,” he hums noncommittally.

“Why? Is your monthly stipend not enough?”

He only shrugs and says, “It’s familiar.” Focusing on the game again, he joins the crowd in yelling at an umpire who made an apparently questionable call.

And there was that wall of his. A wall you wanted to push against with all your strength, asking every question that ran through your mind. But he clearly didn’t want to talk about it. And it wasn’t your place to force them down either. So you pop another handful of crackerjacks into your mouth and crunch away.

Three outs are reached and all of a sudden the entire audience stands to their feet as the announcer proclaims it’s time for the “Seventh Inning Stretch”. 

“Wait,” you say as Bucky stands to his feet. He stares down at you, seeming confused as to why you’re still sitting. “People actually do a seventh inning stretch?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s my first game!”

He tries - and fails - to smother a laugh. “Yes, the seventh inning stretch is real. We’ve been sitting for,” he checks his watch, “almost two hours now in a cramped space. Plus we sing songs, it’s fun.”

Your nose wrinkles in suspicion. “That sounds made up.”

“I promise!” another laugh escapes him. “Come on, stretch with me.”

Looking around to make sure Bucky wasn’t trying to publicly humiliate you, you do indeed find almost everyone standing and shuffling around in some fashion. You mirror Bucky as he stretches his arms to the sky while standing on his tiptoes, followed by rolling his shoulders and shifting his weight from foot to foot. As you open your mouth to confront him about his blatant lie of singing, rousing organ music blares over the speakers attached to the balconies.

You almost jump out of your skin, grabbing onto Bucky’s arm tightly. He only offers a smirk as he joins in with an obnoxious amount of gusto to ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game”.

Except he saw it fitting to add on his own commentary.

“Take me out to the ball game –  _you’re welcome, I already did_. Take me out with the crowd. Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks -  _again, you’re welcome._  I don’t care if I never get back -  _you will get back, don’t worry._  Let me root, root, root for the -” and then the entire stadium screams, “DODGERS! If we don’t win it’s a shame - _we will._

For it’s ONE! TWO! THREE! strikes you’re out at the oooold baaaaall gaaaame!”

Again, the crowd is cheering and you feel a bit like 30,000 people were playing a joke on you. Was this actually a tradition? Bucky insisted it was.

The next inning is fairly quiet; the majority of the gameplay sticking to home plate in the ongoing duel between pitcher and batter. You settle back into your seat, mind wandering for a moment before you realize that Bucky had fallen silent in the past few minutes. Turning to ask a question, it dies on your lips as you take in his state. His thumb is rubbing against the tips of his other fingers constantly, his foot tapping a steady beat beneath him. You’re fairly certain if he keeps biting his lip like that he’s going to draw blood.

Everything in you wants to ask what’s wrong, what had changed, what you can do to help.

But maybe that’s not what he needs right now.

Instead, you place your hand over his fidgety one, squeezing his fingers tightly. His head swings to you. Releasing his lip from between his teeth he takes a deep breath before making a terrifying statement.

“I, uh… wanted to ask you something.”

The bustle of the crowd fades away. The yelling, the taunting, the outraged fans, all fall on deaf ears. In this moment, your focus zeroes in on him - eyes latching onto his icy blue ones, the knit of his brow causing your stomach to flip.

“Okay. Ask away.”

_I’ve gotten really good at faking being calm._

“I know this is a lot to ask, but you’ve become very important to me.” He pauses, further prolonging your terror. “Would you wanna meet my family soon?” His thumb is rubbing across the top of your hand, squeezing ever so slightly.

A smile that is equal parts relieved and thrilled makes its way to your face. “You want me to meet your family?”

He casts his eyes down, still playing with your fingers. “If that’s somethin’ you want. I know everyone at once could be overwhelming, maybe instead we could have dinner with just Becca first?”

“Bucky.” Finally looking at you again, you do everything in your power to show him just how sincere you really are. “I would love to come.”

He gives you a disbelieving smile in return, cocking his head as he asks, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, feeling heat in your cheeks that had nothing to do with the sweltering temperature.

“Okay,” he sighs, lifting his hat with his other hand to run fingers through his hair. “We do dinner together every Sunday night. Dad’ll be out of town on business until Wednesday so it’ll just be us and the girls. That okay?”

“It’s more than okay. I’m really, really excited to meet everyone.”

Neither of you realize that you’d been lost gazing at each other adoringly until the crowd erupts, everyone leaping to their feet as Pee Wee Reese hits the ball, allowing his teammate on third base to score a run. But all Bucky does is bring the hand holding his up to his mouth and places a gentle kiss to your knuckles, eyes locked on yours. His action knocks loose the feelings and memories from your first date all those months ago when he’d done the exact same thing.

The game ends in a Dodgers victory, prompting a whooping cheer and applause from the crowd. As you shuffle out of the park along with the rest of the patrons - like content cattle, Bucky jokes - an ominous boom floats down from the heavens.

“Sounds like it may rain. Let’s stop by my apartment to grab an umbrella before we get you home.”

You’d long since learned that Bucky walking you home after spending time together was a non-negotiable. No matter your arguments the night always ended with Bucky kissing you goodnight on your doorstep and whistling a tune down the street. Could you easily hop on the subway by yourself and be home at a much more efficient time? Yes. Were you upset about the additional time spent with your window washer? Mmm, you really couldn’t say no.

The pair of you climb up the steps to his apartment, his keys jingling in his hand when you hear raised voices coming from behind his front door. Bucky’s eyebrows pull together, looking utterly confused as worry bubbles in your chest.

Framing the door you both lean in, now able to clearly make out Steve’s low and Peggy’s clipped tones.

“Uh-oh,” Bucky mutters. You tilt your head in question. “Something big has been brewing at work. I’m guessing this has something to do with it.”

Initially you’d laughed when Bucky had admitted that Peggy and Steve worked for a lesser-known, semi-covert government agency - SRS? SRR? Something like that. The same people who had been responsible for making Steve into Captain America, is what you’d gleaned from his vague explanation. Connie had actually been right about it and you owed her an apology drink.

You couldn’t help but be grateful that Bucky hadn’t chosen that line of work; you didn’t think you could handle him dealing with the bizarre and unexplainable happenings throughout the world and not worry about his well being every second of every day.

Bucky shifts to turn the doorknob when your hand flies to his, your head shaking vehemently.

“The umbrella is just inside the door, they’ll have no idea I was even here,” he assures. Reluctantly you remove your hand, allowing Bucky to crack the door open. Muffled voices turn into clear words as Peggy and Steve disagree - rather loudly.

“By all means, fly out on a mission tonight if that’s what you really want.” Steve’s sarcasm cuts deep - and you aren’t even on the receiving end.

“God, can you get it through your thick skull that I’m doing what I have to do? That I’ve been given orders?” You could hear the barely-checked rage seething from Peggy as Bucky slides through the narrow opening he’d allowed himself.

Steve scoffs, “Orders? You really wanna tell me - you demanded they let you in on this!”

“Even if I did, what gives you the right to tell me I shouldn’t go? Because they told you ‘no’? Because you don’t think I’m capable of doing this?”

“You know me better than that. Of course I know you’re capable.”

“Then what could it possibly be?”

“When we were overseas, I always had you as backup. You always had me. And I don’t trust any of those fucking idiots to have your back over there.”

“I don’t need to be saved, Steven!”

“That’s not what I’m-”

Bucky appears in the doorway again with the umbrella in tow, though he’s more focused on the ongoing bickering than closing the door.

You’d missed a few lines back and forth by the time Bucky is back at your side, both of you pressing against the door to hear.

Peggy’s voice comes through slightly softer. “You need to trust me when I tell you that in the moment they will do what needs to be done.”

“Can you be sure of that? You know that I respect you, that I know you are worth 10 other agents. But do they?”

Bucky pulls the door closed, breathing deeply. “Well. That’s gonna be fun to hear about when I get home.”

You raise a brow when Bucky offers his arm to help you down the staircase. “You really think he’ll be in the sharing mood?”

“Trust me,” he gives an ungraceful snort, “He’ll probably keep me up all night with his dumb puppy-dog eyes and moping.”

“Steve, moping?” you ask with a giggle.

As you emerge back onto the busy New York street, Bucky unfurls the umbrella against the soft pitter-patter of rain. He gives you a sidelong glance before muttering, “You have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued patience as I work on this story! Serving on a jury really threw my writing schedule for a loop. And then all the doubts and fear crept into my mind, but sweet friends helped battle it, per usual. The next chapter should be out by next week, it’s one that’s been in the works for a while and should be a fairly quick write for me.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Love you all, sharing this with you has been a delight.
> 
> A few notes from a huge baseball nerd right here - the game I wrote about is June 21, 1946, which was actually a Friday night. But they lost the Saturday game in real life and that wouldn’t have been near as fun to write about and I couldn’t see Flannery letting Sixth Floor off of work early for a baseball game. So grant me that one small creative liberty. I even used the box score from that game to help guide the chapter – Pee Wee Reese is indeed in the Hall of Fame and ball parks all over the country broke attendance records in 1946. If anyone cares, the Dodgers and Cardinals ended up tied that season, so they had an extra series of games to determine who won the Pennant that year; sadly, the Dodgers lost. And the 1941 game that Bucky recounts? Same game as the one Steve hears on the radio when he wakes up in modern day New York in CA:TFA.


	12. Meeting the Barnes Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Barnes family meets Reader and family-like shenanigans ensue.

“Bucky, are you sure I shouldn’t have worn a dress?” you ask for the tenth time, looking uncertainly down at your wide-legged trousers which fall in a graceful line to your feet. Your brightly colored blouse - the one Suzy had picked out between the options you had presented her; she insisted it was the perfect color on you - is carefully tucked in where your pants taper in at the waist.

 

House by house you steadily approach the Barnes’ family home as you walk the streets of Brooklyn. Your fingers toy with the fabric of Bucky’s suit jacket absentmindedly where your hand is tucked into his elbow.

 

“I’m telling you, sweetheart, you could wear a potato sack and the girls wouldn’t think less of you.” He playfully nudges your side for good measure.

 

“Well I did have a dress made out of a flour sack when I was a kid, maybe that would’ve been better.”

 

He’s all tease. “First off, everyone had flour-sack clothes. We were all Depression kids, you’re not special.” His tone shifts to one of gentle sincerity. “Second, quit worryin’. They care about who you are as a person a lot more than what you’re wearing.”

 

_ ‘Quit worrying,’  _ you scoff internally. _ What a gas. Meeting Steve and Peggy was one thing, but this? How can I not worry about meeting the four women that know him best? Four women that could easily chew me up and spit me out if they don’t think I’m right for Bucky. I need all the help I can get. At least his dad won’t be here. _

 

Bucky brings you to a stop in front of a waist-level iron fence. At the end of the pathway behind the white gate is a sweet brick house with a small porch, large windows taking up most of the front of the home.

 

“This is it,” he sighs before turning to look down at you. “You ready?” 

 

Rather than answering his question you ask your own. “Are  _ you _ ready?” 

 

A smile quirks his mouth to one side before he opens the tiny gate with a flourish. “After you, ma’am.”

 

He raps his knuckles on the door once, twice, before opening the door. Loud female chatter reaches you from around the corner as Bucky takes your purse and hat to hang on the coat rack before he deposits his own hat and jacket. There’s an undeniable warmth here that has nothing to do with the temperature. Red drapes frame the windows, the pieces of on-trend floral furniture matching perfectly. You can practically see a young Bucky listening to the large radio in the corner while sprawled out on the patterned area rug.

 

“We’re here!” he shouts, leading you by the hand through the living room to approach the kitchen.

 

The talk comes to an immediate stop before you hear a rumbling of feet. “Bucky!” several women squeal as they rush to meet you in the kitchen’s threshold.

 

You are momentarily stunned by how similar the Barnes women look. Their various statures are among the only differences between them. You see echoes of Bucky in their raven hair, bright eyes, and dimples as all of them flock to greet you. 

  
Two of them surge forward, each taking an arm exuberantly.

 

“Oh hello!” by way of the pregnant stomach, you’re assuming Rose, greets.

  
“I can’t believe we are finally meeting you!” the youngest-looking,  _ has to be Evelyn _ , coos through the sweetest smile that takes you aback. 

 

They begin to talk over each other, variations of “You look lovely!” and “It’s about time he brings you around” and “Are you sure he’s not paying you to pretend to be his girlfriend?” shared in all sorts of merriment.

 

“Let her breathe, girls,” chides the tallest from her place beneath Bucky’s arm.

 

_ Becca, _ you reason, given Bucky’s easy demeanor as they embrace.

 

Clad in a clearly well-loved apron, the shortest, eldest, and most effusive of the women reaches her hands toward you and Rose and Evelyn make way for their mother. You clumsily clasp her fingers, maternal affection not among the things you’re used to. She either doesn’t or pretends not to notice your stilted return of her greeting as she says, “Welcome to our home, darling. Needless to say, we are thrilled you and James are here.” It’s the first time you’ve heard someone call Bucky by his first name and it would have been jarring if not for the obvious affection with which Winnifred spoke it. You can’t help but take note that the corners of her eyes have the same distinct crinkle when she smiles, just like someone else you know.

 

“Thank you for having me over for dinner, Mrs. Barnes.”

 

She waves a hand, “None of that, please call me Winnifred.” Moving to Bucky, she plants a kiss to his rosy, clean-shaven cheek.

 

Becca takes the moment to introduce herself before complimenting, “I love your outfit. I wish I could pull that color off.”

 

“Thank you for saying that, I was wondering if I shouldn’t have dressed up a bit more.” You flatten your hands against your thighs.

 

Looking down at her own perfectly tailored trousers then back up at you, her eyes dance. “Pants are perfectly dressy enough in this house. I’ve broken the family in for you,” she winks conspiratorially. “But I think we should get to wear what we want when we’re making our own money, ya know?”

 

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” you smile genuinely for the first time since stepping in the door. Perhaps it was your knowledge of Bucky’s special bond with Becca coloring your opinions, but you suddenly felt as if you had a teammate in your corner, someone to act as a buffer against any awkwardness you may feel.

 

Winnifred turns from Bucky back to you, laying a soft hand on your shoulder. “I apologize, dear - dinner is running a little behind schedule. Normally I’d try to have the meal finished by the time our guests arrive, but it’s been a hectic day. Bucky tells us you’re the gracious sort who won’t be scared off by our tardiness.”

 

Feeling all eyes on you you shake your head. “Oh gosh, no, it’s perfectly okay. Is there anything I can do to help?”

 

“The only thing you’re allowed to do is sit with us in the kitchen and have a glass of tea.” With that, Rose loops her arm through yours and leads you to the table in the kitchen. You obediently take a seat and expect to be joined by Bucky but when you turn, he’s undone the cuffs of his long button-down shirt and is rolling up his sleeves. He grabs a bowl from the counter, grabbing a potato masher and getting to work.

 

You fight a pang of petulant jealousy that Bucky gets to do something to keep himself busy while you sit in the middle of the room, useless and on display.

 

Each family member has a task, an area you suspect is fairly common for them. Winnifred focuses on the main dish - something that looks suspiciously like a meatloaf roasting in the oven. Bucky and Becca bump hips as they assist with side dishes as needed - mashed potatoes and some vegetable concoction. Rose has gathered cups for beverages, Evelyn is in charge of setting the table for six. You imagine this scene playing out a thousand times in the past, the ease of moving around each other, the familiarity of the room. It sends an ache to your heart.

 

You make it through the standard questions politely; where you work, what you do, where you’re from. Everything you’d expected for a ‘meet the family’ night and the meal hadn’t even been served yet. This was going to be fine, what could happen?

 

“What did you say was your hometown?” Evelyn asks.

 

Bucky answers for you from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, sending a bloom of warmth through your chest. “Tarrytown.”

 

“Tarrytown. . . where have I heard of that?” Winnifred tuts almost to herself while she peers into the oven.

 

“It’s about a five minute drive from Sleepy Hollow, if that helps.” You sip your tea, waiting on the typical reaction.

 

“That’s exactly it!” she props a hand on her hip as comprehension dawns on her.

 

Rose looks to you curiously. “Sleepy Hollow? As in, the Headless Horseman?”

 

“One and the same,” you nod, relishing in your little town’s shared history. You couldn’t imagine a world where the setting of a 19th century legend wasn’t the sweeping glen outside of your hometown - well technically, village - that inspired gothic stories all through the region. 

 

The family makes various noises of interest and surprise, including a begrudging “I didn’t even know that,” from your boyfriend.

 

Becca hums. “I can imagine Halloween is a pretty big deal for you guys.”

 

Finally, a subject you could really talk about. “Oh, you have no idea. It’s a week-long event for us and we get a ridiculous amount of visitors.” 

 

“Do you and your family have any fun traditions for Halloween?”

 

You smile at Winnifred before answering. “Well, I’m an only child, so it’s always been just me and my parents. We usually volunteer at one of the public events or attend a party our neighbor throws.”

 

“That sounds lovely,” she returns your smile.

 

You stand up for a moment, taking a step toward Bucky. “Are you sure I can’t help-”

 

“NO!” all five Barneses exclaim, twisting to fix you with the same exact insistent, yet kind look. You immediately plant yourself in your seat again.

 

“You’re our guest,” Rose explains.

 

“Actually, Rose, you need to sit down too. You’ve been on your feet all evening,” Evelyn pointedly looks down to her sister’s shoes.

 

“I’m not going to tell you you’re wrong,” she groans before sinking into the chair next to you.

 

“How much longer do you have?” you ask as the other siblings take orders from Winnifred.

 

With a thoughtful hum and rub of her belly Rose replies, “About three months, we think.”

 

“That’s gotta be exciting,” you venture, bordering on territory that was completely unfamiliar.

 

The young woman’s head bobs back and forth. “Exciting, terrifying. . . depends on the day. I thought I was ready to be a mother, but the closer we get, the more nervous I feel. I have no clue what I’m going to do.” The last bit is said quietly, almost guiltily, as if it had been the first time she’d let the thought breathe outside of her own mind.

 

Sensing her tenuous feelings, you measure your next words carefully. “While I don’t know exactly what you mean, I can relate to that.” Rose watches you, doe-eyed. “I’ve been living on my own for a few months now and I feel like every day I make it up as I go along. But I don’t think any of us are expected to have everything figured out. Having the willingness, the grit try to figure it out is what counts. Obviously I don’t know anything about being a parent. But it seems like if you love your child and do your best by them, everything will fall into place.”

 

You weren’t expecting to see Rose’s eyelashes glittering with moisture when you look back to her. 

 

_ Oh no. I’ve said the wrong thing, why couldn’t I just nod and move on? _

 

The panic you felt on the inside must have started to show on your face, because Rose begins shaking her head, wiping furiously at the tears. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so weepy lately. I needed to hear that. Thank you, really. I haven’t really talked about it before, except with my husband.”

 

Relief floods you. “You’re welcome, and I mean it. It’s gonna be okay.” 

 

Rose giggles wetly before looking past you. “She’s just as kind as you said, Buck.”

 

“Don’t sound so surprised.” A familiar hand on your shoulder prompts you to look up into Bucky’s soft eyes. 

 

He looks like he wants to say something but is interrupted by Winnifred announcing, “Let’s get the food on the table, kids, it’s dinner time.”

 

The six of you fit comfortably around the table. Bucky and Winnifred settle at either end while you sit to Bucky’s right, next to Becca. Once Rose and Evelyn are seated across from you the steaming platters are passed around. You fill your plate up probably more than was considered “lady-like”, but it smelled so much like home and you’d rather overeat than insult your hostess by not eating enough.

 

“Tell us how you met,” Evelyn urges as she picks up her fork. “Buck only mentioned it was through work.”

 

“Well, do you want to know about the time he almost died or the first time we actually spoke to each other a few weeks later?” You take a bite of the meatloaf, chewing at Bucky smuggly.

 

The table as a whole freezes and all heads swivel to Bucky, who has developed a sudden intense interest in his meatloaf. 

 

“Bucky, you said this job was safe.” Winnifred does a fair job of hiding her natural worry behind a stern gaze.

 

“Compared to war it is. And saying I almost died is an exaggeration.”

 

“Free-falling 10 stories is exaggerating near-death?” you say skeptically.

 

“Bucky!” The four women squawk. He finally has the decency to look embarrassed.

 

“I was never in danger, it was just a little hiccup.”

 

You share what you saw that crisp April morning, his fearlessness, his strength, his kindness during your first true interaction through the window. And a concerning disregard for his personal safety, but that was beside the point.

 

Bucky finally chimes back in when you describe how stressed you were on your first day. “When I actually got to cleaning the window close to her desk, she was so frazzled she couldn’t even find the pencil behind her ear.” He winks at you before assuring you, “It was adorable.”

  
“Guess you’ve been keeping me sane ever since, huh?” you let a smile loose, the fondness of that first memory erasing any embarrassment you may have had.

 

You don’t miss the twinkle in his eye as he says, “That’s debatable.”

 

“Takes crazy to know crazy.” His sisters dissolve into giggles at your sass, Winnifred hiding a sly grin behind her napkin. “Anyway, we went on our first date a couple weeks later.”

  
Becca props her chin on a hand before she mockingly muses, “Well isn’t that sickeningly cute.” Bucky sends a face her way that Winnifred immediately chastises him for, muttering something about “adult toddlers”.

 

A spirited debate begins amongst the siblings regarding Bucky’s behavior as an older brother and first-born.

 

You look up from your plate upon hearing your name, finding Evelyn leaning on her elbows toward you. “Count yourself lucky to not have any brothers or sisters, he was an absolute terror growing up.”

 

“Oh come on, I think it was the standard fare,” Bucky tries to bargain. “And I spent a lot of time carting you around so you could hang out with friends.”

 

Evelyn presses her fingertips together, steepling her hands. “Shall we go back to the worst Thanksgiving of my life?” Bucky groans, a hand coming up to cover his eyes. The girl’s attention is on you now, eyes as expressive as her brother’s. “I get massive hiccups after dinner which stick around for an hour. Buck walks in with a ‘Hey, I learned a surefire way to get rid of hiccups, wanna try?’ And of course I do because I’m miserable and I trust my big brother. Five minutes later he’s got me hanging upside down by my ankles while Becca pours water into my mouth. He tried to drown me! Both of you did!” 

 

“I was trying to help! Plus that was a long time ago - I was young and foolish.”

 

“YOU WERE 23!” Evelyn yells, causing you to sputter into your beverage.

 

“Your hiccups stopped didn’t they?” Bucky’s hand is on his chest, trying to hold back his laughter.

 

“Only after you nearly dropped me when Mom came into the room!” Everyone, even Winnifred, can’t contain themselves at that; everyone else re-living the memory while you chuckle just imagining it. You love the idea of the shenanigans the Barnes children got up to in this house, picturing this kind of laughter around the clock. Growing up, your own small house was often quiet with only three mild-mannered people taking up residence.

 

The sound of a car door slamming shut has Bucky glancing toward the kitchen window, brows knitting together. The front door opens and his posture immediately shifts as he looks to his Ma. She’s already on her feet, disappearing into the hallway where your ears pick up a deep voice. The siblings around you share hard looks, leaving you confused. But then Winnifred appears in the kitchen doorway, eyes trained on Bucky. Something is shared between them extremely quickly that you can’t keep up with before realizing what’s happened.

 

George Barnes shuffles in looking weary and dour, setting his luggage down by the couch. Bucky shares many of his features - the strong jaw, consistent hairline, the mouth - yet you’d never seen this sour of an expression on his son’s face.

 

Bucky stands. “Dad. Didn’t know you were going to make it.” 

 

“Well I heard we were having a guest and didn’t want to miss the opportunity to meet her.” 

 

Bucky twists the cloth napkin in his hands tightly.

 

Not sure what else to do, you stand and smile at George, drawing his attention. 

 

He removes his hat, fiddling with it in one hand. “So this is the girl I’ve heard so much about. George Barnes.” A small wave is given across the table, his sharp eyes flicking down to your outfit for a moment before returning to study you.

 

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” you offer, your mind grasping desperately for something else to say but coming up empty.

 

Breaking the silence, Winnifred turns to Evelyn. “Could you grab another setting please? We’ll have to shift around a little bit.” Everyone moves from their stock-still positions, shuffling plates around the table to make room for one more seat. Bucky pulls a chair next to yours as you shift closer to Becca, managing to sit snugly between the siblings as George replaces Bucky at the head of the table.

 

The patriarch gratefully accepts the full plate set in front of him, not wasting a moment to begin his meal. The rest of the family turns to their own food. You take note that Evelyn has removed her elbows from the table. Becca has fallen silent. Rose’s face lacks a smile. You’re certain if Bucky sits up any straighter he’s going to pull a muscle. 

 

_ What just happened?  _ You wonder, more than a little stunned.

 

“So, Bucky, how’s your training going?” Rose attempts, voice desperate to dispel the tension in the room.

 

Only you catch the moment of hesitation Bucky has before answering. “It’s tough, but I think I’m doing well. Spend almost every spare minute studying. After Independence Day I’m headed to Pennsylvania for a month of on-site training. I’ve been told it will be intense.”

 

“Mmm, I remember those days of training. It felt like forever,” you remark, taking a stab at your vegetables.

 

“I cannot imagine what it must have been like to be a woman in such a masculine profession,” Becca comments, tone almost formal as she keeps her eyes down.

 

George grunts from his chair, scooping another forkful of mashed potatoes. The noise strikes a chord in Bucky - you can see his mouth moving to open, a bitter retort no doubt on his tongue. Instinctually you rest a hand on his thigh, halting him.

 

“Yes, it was a challenge. But nothing I couldn’t handle,” you smile sweetly at Becca, feeling George watching you. Pointedly ignoring him, you tack on, “You could’ve handled it too. It’s not so bad.”

 

Bucky continues. “Good news is that Harvey, her uncle,” he motions to you, “offered me a position as a serviceman in his garage once I get back. He’s agreed to help teach me as I finish up my training.” You pat Bucky’s leg, for the upteenth time in your life thankful for your Uncle Harvey.

 

George joins the conversation. “You’ve got a job lined up then, have you?”

 

“Yes, sir.” Bucky adds a tight nod of assent.

 

“Ya know, James-” you can’t help but compare Winnifred’s sweet handling of the name versus George’s almost scold, “-I would’ve been more than happy to have set you up with a position at my company if you’d asked. That was the plan before you enlisted.”

 

“I know, Dad. I needed something new.”

 

His father huffs, eyes cutting to you yet again. “Didn’t think I pushed you to be in the top of your class all those years to end up with you in that profession. But it’s your life.”

 

The words are coming out of your mouth before your mind can process them.

 

“Actually, being a mechanic requires an advanced understanding of mathematics and physics as well as the ability to comprehend mechanical and electrical engineering. Your efforts weren’t wasted sir, they are being put to excellent use.”

 

Again, the stillness at the dining table is glaringly obvious. 

 

A tinge of regret swirls in your gut. Not from having said the words, but for the discomfort it caused five members of this family. The sixth, you were quickly discovering you didn’t care too much for.

 

“George, how was your work trip?” Winnifred questions, graciously shifting focus away from her son.

 

However, your focus turns to Bucky completely. A close look shows that he’s making a valiant effort to control his breathing, and you’re guessing his temper too. You tap fingers on the back of his hand and he flips it over to thread your digits together. The motion calms you somewhat, worry that you had added to his anxiety easing. A gentle squeeze from him signals that he’s thankful. You squeeze twice to tell him he’s doing great. He’s in the middle of his sequence of three squeezes back when George lays his fork down, sighing in satisfaction.

 

“Dinner was wonderful, Winnie,” he says rather kindly, the obvious affection for his wife in his gaze a stark contrast to his behavior toward everyone else.

 

“Thank you, dear.” Winnifred turns, “Evelyn, I believe it’s your turn to wash up.”

 

“Oh please, let me help,” you implore. The family begins to protest before you raise your voice above them, already taking yours and Bucky’s plates in hand. “Please, let me be useful tonight. You all have been wonderful hosts, let me feel a little better about myself.”

 

Without much resistance, the Barneses acquiesce. Winnifred places bread pudding on the table, starts up a pot of coffee, and doles out mugs. After scraping the remnants of food from the dinner plates you take station next to Evelyn, towel at the ready to dry the dishes after she washes and rinses.

 

After a few plates and asking after her boyfriend, you go after the only other thing you really know about Evelyn. “You graduated high school, right? What’s next for you, Evie?”

 

“Evelyn,” she says softly.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

Her shy glance at you hints at a deeper insecurity. “Would you mind calling me Evelyn?”

 

You blink. “Oh gosh, of course I don’t mind. I am so sorry, that’s just all I’ve heard Bucky call you.”

 

A gentle sigh escapes her before she confides, “I’ve asked him to stop calling me Evie. He hasn’t quite gotten around to it.”

 

“Ah. Childhood nickname I assume?” you calmly wipe down a few utensils before setting them aside.

 

“Right. It just. . .“Evelyn contemplates the suds covering her hands, “. . . doesn’t sound like an adult. And it feels like when Bucky calls me Evie, he’s not thinking of me as an adult. He’s still picturing the scrawny 14-year-old little sister he left behind when he joined the army. I’ve grown up a lot since then, but he’s not really seeing that.” She hands over a plate ready for drying, catching your thoughtful face. “I’m sorry, that was a lot.”

 

“No, no, I understand. Thank you for telling me. So  _ Evelyn _ tell me what your plans are.”

 

As you listen to Evelyn talk about engagement rings and wedding plans, you check over your shoulder and catch Bucky watching you. Unlike every other time in your relationship when you’ve caught him looking, he doesn’t turn away bashfully. In fact, his nose crinkles ever-so-slightly while his lips curl into a smile. Part of you wants to feel self-conscious, but another part preens at the attention, the adoration in his eyes.

 

His content expression disappears, however, when George turns to say something to him, the corners of his mouth turning down quickly. You sigh internally. Turns out you’d taken Steve’s warning about father and son not getting along a little too lightly. And it also turns out that it was harder to watch than you’d expected.

 

As soon as the dishes are set back in their places in the cabinet, you and Evelyn join the table once more. Gratefully accepting the coffee Bucky passes you sit in your chair, noticing that he’d scooted ever-so-slightly closer with his arm stretching across the back of your seat.

 

“I understand you work, is that right?” A glance up from your bread pudding confirms that George was speaking to you.

 

Scrutinizing men was something you dealt with every day. This was child’s play. “Yes, sir. In Chevrolet’s corporate office.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“I work directly for a supply manager, I monitor his correspondence and help maintain the relationship between Chevrolet and our factories in this region.”

 

“And you type letters, I assume?”

 

Not being able to stop the narrowing of your eyes you take a beat before responding, “Yes, sir. That’s one of my many responsibilities.” 

  
George takes a sip of coffee, matching your scrupulous gaze squarely. “And you’re finding moving from factory work to being a secretary satisfying?”

 

Wooden chair legs screech across the floor as Bucky stands abruptly, aggressively tabling his coffee mug. “We better get going, work will come early in the morning and we’ve got a good walk home.”

 

Everyone else stands to their feet - George being the last to rise - and Bucky grabs your things for you. As you accept hugs from Rose and Evelyn, you watch Winnifred embrace Bucky from the corner of your eye. She whispers something in his ear. Bucky pulls back, smile and nod tight as he turns to his father.

 

You miss their exchange when Becca offers her own hug. “We should grab dinner sometime after work!”

 

“I would really enjoy that, Becca. Thank you for being so welcoming,” you squeeze back.

 

Before pulling away completely she whispers, “You have done my brother a world of good and I will love you for that forever.” Someone would think she’d punched you in the stomach, the way the breath was knocked out of you.

 

Turns out that George Barnes spares you from having to respond. “It has been very nice meeting you, young lady,” he bellows as sticks his hand out to you.

 

“Likewise, Mr. Barnes.” You grasp his hand and shake firmly, making a point to maintain eye contact before you part.

 

Winnifred grabs your hands once again. “You are a true joy. Thank you for spending the evening with us. I hope we get to see you soon and get to know you better.” Her openness continues to throw you for a loop. “And if you’re ever in the neighborhood and need anything, our door is always open.”

 

You tell her that you’ll keep that in mind as you return her hug. Everyone says a last “goodbye!” as Bucky shuts the door, placing his hat on his head.

 

He latches the iron gate before turning to you. Hands shoved in his pockets, he kicks a rock.

 

“You okay?” you ask hesitantly.

 

He looks up at the dark sky. “I think so. Are you?” Blue eyes dart to yours, the concern there enhanced by the street lamps.

 

You chuckle. “I think so.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” he moves to rub the back of his neck as if it pained him. “I had no clue he was going to be here-”

 

“You have nothing to apologize for, Bucky.”

 

He lets out a humorless laugh. “We both know that’s not true. I don’t know why he is the way he is.”

 

“I think at some point in time we all have that thought about our parents. But your mom is as lovely as I expected. All the girls are, actually.”

 

His eyes shift over your shoulder and out of nowhere, he waves his arms to one side in a “shoo!” motion. You spin to see three feminine shadows scurry away from the window and swear you hear laughter.

 

“And your sisters are a ball of fun,” you step into Bucky, wrapping arms around his waist. His heartbeat is a little too fast under your ear but he eventually embraces you as well. “I had a nice time tonight, honey. Truly.”

 

“You sure?” He murmurs, tilting your chin up.

 

“I’m sure,” you nod, probably a little too eagerly.

 

Incredulous, he strokes your cheek with a finger. “How did I ever find you?” his lips press to your forehead.

 

“Do we really have to go over you almost dying again?”

 

His chest rumbles with laughter, the last of his shoulder tension dissipating.

 

“Get out of here!” Bucky shouts suddenly, startling you before realizing you’re not his intended target. This time, Rose, Evelyn, and Becca keep peeking through the drapes, tongues sticking out at their brother. “Sisters,” he scoffs before he grabs your hand and leads you down the street back to the subway station.


	13. The Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Bucky is in Pennsylvania for motor vehicle mechanic training, you and he exchange a series of letters.

July 7, 1946

Dear Bucky,

I can already imagine the panic on your face when I hand this to you at the train station this afternoon. I hope you take my assurance that it isn’t a Dear John letter seriously. I just wanted to give you something to read on your long trip to Pennsylvania. A 10 hour train ride to Pittsburgh and then a 2 hour bus ride to New Castle, I think you told me? I know you packed some textbooks but one can only do so much studying in a 12 hour window - you’ll go crazy. And I’d really appreciate it if you returned semi-sane. But I also wanted to circumvent any uncontrollable emotions I may have during a goodbye, no matter how temporary it may be. In short, you’re very welcome.

I know you’re a big brave combat veteran but I also know this training is a big deal for you. It’s all new material, a new place, new people. A lot of change in a really small amount of time. No matter how much you insist that you’re fine, I’ll still commend you for facing this challenge head on. And I’ll be in your corner as long as you’ll let me. Hopefully you’ll be so busy that you forget about any discomfort you may have.

I have to admit, I’m a bit jealous of you. You know how tough work has been the last week. With Anderson piling more tasks on me while he’s been mysteriously out of the office and Flannery being even more strict on how the office is run after the Fourth of July debacle, my job has been exhausting. What I’d give to leave it behind for a while, to learn useful, practical skills. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be - well, I guess I already had my turn, huh? I’m hoping you’ll let me live vicariously through you over the next month. Write to let me know all about what you’re learning and how you’re feeling about it, if you want to. Who knows, you may be able to teach me a thing or two when you get back. But not more than two. That’d be far-fetched. Don’t forget, I did teach you everything you know.

See you in 34 days. That’s doable, right? What am I supposed to do with myself with all this free time? You’ve put quite the cramp in my social life, apparently. I’ll have to see what kind of trouble I can get in without you.

Hope to hear from you soon.

Be good,

Your Girl

 

* * *

 

_July 8, 1946_

_Sixth Floor,_

_Gotta admit, you shoving a piece of paper into my hands as you pushed me onto the train did take me by surprise. After the split second of panic I realized you’d miss me too much if you let me go. But in all seriousness, thank you for writing that letter. Kinda felt like I got to carry a little bit of you with me here. That’s cheesy. Nevermind._

_I haven’t written a letter since I was discharged from the army, so I apologize if I’m a little rusty. It’ll be especially strange since my CO won’t be reading it or redacting any information. I’ll have to get Becca to show you some of the letters I sent home - most of the time half of what I wrote had been blacked out due to “sensitive information”. Towards the end of the war my letters were short and sweet, just telling everyone I was alive and okay. I don’t get the impression that the teachers here will have much interest in my mail. Time will tell. But I do remember in the beginning that writing down things that had happened to me over there was helpful. Like I could get a tragic event out of my head with just a pen. Writing down helped make sense of it somehow. Hopefully these letters will have the same effect._

_While I technically wrote this on the train, by the time I get this to a post office I’ll have made it to New Castle safely. When I was young we never traveled very far out of the city, so ironically the most “country” I’ve seen was in Europe and it was nowhere near as pleasant as here. Places that have had the ever-loving shit bombed out of them can hardly be called pleasant. Maybe getting out of the city will be good for my head. Like you said, being able to get away from the usual responsibilities to focus only on this training will be a nice break, I think. And a vacation from washing windows. I’m gonna get spoiled._

_You called me on my bluff and I like to think I’m an honest man. To be real honest with you. . . I’m nervous. Part of me wonders if I even have what it takes to finish out this training. But I’ll take your word for it. If you think I can do it, you can’t be_ _completely_ _wrong, can you? And don’t worry, the problem won’t be ‘how long will Bucky keep me in his corner’ but closer to ‘will Bucky ever let me OUT of his corner?’. The answer will probably be no. To be determined._

_Don’t be afraid to share about your days, too. Maybe it’ll make me a little less homesick, if I get to that point. And I know your days will be infinitely harder without me there by your side. Whatever will you do? I really wish you could be here, though._

_33 days better pass quickly, for your sake and for mine._

_Yours,_

_Bucky_

 

* * *

 

July 12, 1946

Dearest Bucky,

If you can’t actually address a letter with my real name instead of using “Sixth Floor” I’m going to find an embarrassing nickname for you so the postal worker snickers when they hand letters over to you, see how you like it.

It’s been a fairly innocuous week. A quiet one, that’s for sure. Just been trying to keep my head down and avoid Anderson as much as I can. Suzy has dragged me out for dinner and drinks a few times to keep me busy. She says hi, by the way. And she demanded I tell you that if you don’t come back soon, I’m going to drive her crazy with my “mopey-ness”. Also, you owe her a drink for cheering me up while you’re gone - she’ll collect when you return. The other girls are doing great; Alice got married and is moving upstate with her husband, so we’ve got a new girl taking her place. She seems sweet, but extremely shy and quiet. Hopefully she warms up to us soon.

Funnily enough, it’s my turn to write a letter on a train. Earlier this week Mom called and complained about not seeing me often enough since I moved into the city, so I’m on my way to Tarrytown. I hadn’t realized I’ve stayed in town every single weekend since we’d gone steady. Guess I’ve had a good reason to keep my plans open, huh?

Mom also fished around for when I’d come back next even though I haven’t even arrived yet. In her round-about-way, she hinted that she wants me home for Halloween. I can’t blame her, I’ve never not been home for the festivities. I was going to buy my ticket in advance and began to wonder if I should buy two. One for me, one for you? I mean, if you would like to visit Tarrytown with me the weekend before Halloween? The 31st is a Thursday, which puts a damper on things, but it’ll still be a blast. Mom mentioned wanting to meet this “mysterious new friend” that’s kept me in New York so often.

Since I had the pleasure of meeting your family, I thought I should return the favor and ask if you’d like to meet my parents? If that’s something you’re not comfortable with, I understand being that it’s way ahead of time and a fairly intimate situation. I’m sorry, I’m not being very eloquent am I? You don’t need to make a decision. Just think about it.

How’s it been? Are you getting along with everyone? Tell me everything!

We’re down to 29 days, but that still feels far too long.

Truly,

My Name is Not Sixth Floor

 

* * *

 

_July 17, 1946_

_Dear Sassafras,_

_Buy 2 tickets to Tarrytown. I’m looking forward to spending Halloween with your folks. You’ll have to try a lot harder than that to scare me off._

_Have we gone steady? I don’t remember asking you. Did you hypnotize me? Please advise. (Hopefully you can read my teasing tone and not leave me heartbroken as a result of this horrible joke)_

_Tell Suzy I’ll happily buy her a drink as long as she keeps guys in bars away from you, huh? All is well here. The guys are okay, but they’re not you. No one is you. But chatting passes the time and they’re easy enough to get along with. It’s interesting to see all the different paths that have led us here, all our different motivations. There are people here from all over. I thought I had to travel a long way, but the guy from Maine’s got me beat. His letters take longer to travel too, makes me grateful I get to hear from you fairly often._

_I know this doesn’t come as a surprise to you but the training has been tough work. Motor oil is permanently stained into my skin, I’m convinced. But I have to admit that everything you taught me gave me a definite leg-up on most of the other students. I was the only one who could replace a spark plug successfully on the first try. They didn’t believe me when I told them my girl showed me how. Obviously they don’t know my girl._

_I was daydreaming the other day about something you whispered to me at Steve’s birthday dinner. It was right after you had finished chatting with Peggy. You kinda tucked yourself into my side when you slid back into the booth, you just grabbed my hand almost wondered out loud, ‘What kind of cake do you like? I wanna know so I make sure you get in on your birthday’. My birthday isn’t even until March, but you were still thinking about me and wanted to have the little bit of info to save for later. The fact that you had ‘for later’ in mind . . . I think about that a lot._

_How are we only at 24 days? Seems like time should be passing faster._

_Always,_

_Bucky_

 

* * *

 

July 22, 1946

James Buchanan,

You’re right, that is a terrible joke. Never do that again or you’ll find I’ve died of a heart attack. Ya big tease.

Speaking of Steve, I dropped by y’all’s apartment on my way home from work to return that book I’d borrowed and we ended up talking for a while. It’s funny, I don’t know if I ever voiced this to you, but he is absolutely nothing that I expected him to be. We were so engrossed in talking about art and literature that I ended up staying way longer than planned, making him late for dinner with Peggy. Hopefully she wasn’t too upset about it. He’s so easy to be around, to let my defenses down with him. I’m really really glad you have him in your life, Bucky. He’s solid, he’s kind, he’s loyal. Knowing him by knowing you has been a treat.

Not to be a downer, but things with Anderson seem to be turning worse. I’m getting up my nerve to talk to Flannery about it. He’s been extra grouchy and demanding. Either he’s raging in his office or he disappears for days at a time. I can’t pick up the slack anymore. And the way he’s been eyeing the new girl - did I tell you her name was Marjorie? I can’t remember - makes me anxious. Something just doesn’t feel right. I don’t want to kick up a fuss, but I’m also reaching the end of my rope and want to look out for the other girls.

Anyway, on to happier things. I remember my hands were covered in all kinds of stains for a while after training, too. Have they taught you to weld yet? That was one of my favorite lessons, welding to fix damage or create a new part. Glad to hear you’re working hard and learning a bunch. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little smug at my having played a small role in your success. I knew you had it in you. Now please don’t prove me wrong out of spite.

You’re such a sweet talker, Barnes, you’re gonna make me shed a tear before this is all over. Of course I think about the ‘for later’s. I like learning the little things about you. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the big picture stuff, we forget about the small details that are even more a part of making us who we are, ya know?

By the way, I’ll kick your ass in 18 days for addressing your letter to Ms. Sassafras Pants. If you won’t properly address, I won’t properly sign. Do you even remember my real name at this point? I got some input from Steve and he recommended a nickname, but it was too offensive for a postman’s eye to put on the outside of the envelope - contrary to popular belief, I do have a reputation to uphold. I’ll let him write it in the postscript.

Always yours,

Sixth Floor

(I’d rather be Sixth Floor than Sassafras)

_P.S. I only told her to call you a dumbass. -SR_

 

* * *

 

_July 27, 1946_

_Sixth Floor,_

_I hope you appreciate your proper name on the envelope this time. But please let me keep calling you by your nickname inside. Sound like a deal?_

_Anderson hasn’t made you feel unsafe, has he? Are you okay? Do I need to send Steve over to teach him a lesson? I trust you’re fully capable of looking after yourself, but a visit from Captain America couldn’t hurt, could it? You know he’d be there in a heartbeat if you asked. I hope the conversation with Flannery was helpful. Keep your eyes and ears open, your gut feelings are usually right. Lemme know what I can do, I feel useless sitting all the way in Pennsylvania._

_I feel like I’m starting to get overwhelmed by all the information. Training isn’t over for a couple more months, I know that, and having Harvey’s help makes me feel a little better. But some days I wonder if I’m cut out for this. If I’m smart enough for it. Can I even fake it good enough to pass? Sorry for rambling. Just processing, I guess. Don’t know if I could ever say that out loud._

_But did you know they’re starting to talk about putting telephones in the radios of cars? Isn’t that crazy? And apparently new models are going to have power-operated windows. Guess the future is coming fast. I’ve also discovered that I hate carburetors with every fiber of my being and they hate me back. The majority of the time it feels good to work with my hands, to keep my brain busy. As an aside, when were you planning on telling me you knew how to weld? Envisioning you handling a welding gun is both adorable and incredibly attractive. Is that too much? Probably. Oh well._

_I miss you. 2 weeks left ‘til I’m home. August 10th, please come quick._

_Thinking of you,_

_Dumbass_

_P.S. Steve - write me letters your damn self if you miss me so much. Dumbass._

 

* * *

 

August 1, 1946

My dearest Bucky,

I get to see you this month - that feels so good to say! We’ve almost made it! Given the timing of our past letters this is probably my last one before I get to hug you. I miss you so much, but honestly, writing letters has been fun. Our relationship blossomed from only speaking with our hands and mouthing words, and here we are now, only using the written word. We’ve come full circle, huh?

Truly, I don’t think I’m in danger at work. Just extremely irritated and on guard. I don’t feel the need to involve Steve at this point, or Peggy. Let’s be honest, she could take him down in the most satisfactory way that would definitely tarnish the symbol of Captain America. You’re sweet to worry, though. Just keep listening, that’s all I ask right now.

I had dinner with Becca last night. I hope that’s okay, I don’t want to cross any kind of boundary that would make you uncomfortable. We had such a pleasant time, though. I feel like we are both so very similar, having overcome a lot of the same struggles. We bonded over our parents worrying about us ending up as old maids and the trouble they had with us working rather than homemaking. Your mom sent cookies with Becca. To be fully transparent, I definitely ate the entire sack that night. Think Winnifred will teach me her ways? Also, I had no idea how interesting being a telephone operator is - the stories Becca had to tell about the people she interacts with! She’s a saint and hilarious and I adore her. She also had some incredibly interesting stories about you. . . we should discuss how angry Monopoly makes you. . . I’m tempted to play a game with you, Steve, and Peggy - I’m aware that could rocket us into another world war, but it’d be fun to watch, no?

I don’t have the words to describe how proud of you I am. I know it hasn’t been easy, I know change can be hard. I know you have doubts. But you are so close to finishing, to reaching a major milestone in your career. I have full faith in you - you can do this. Me, Harvey, Becca, Steve, and everyone else is rooting for you. And if it doesn’t work out, so what? You tried something, you put in work and effort. Finding something you don’t like is just as helpful as finding something you do. You have other options, you always do. I mean, we know you are an impeccable window washer, so. . . Whichever way you decide to go, I’m with you for the ride.

Only 9 days left. I can’t wait to see you at the train station.

Affectionately yours,

Sixth Floor

 

* * *

 

_August 6, 1946_

_Darling Sixth Floor,_

_The more I think about it, the more I realize that being here has been helpful in a lot of ways I didn’t expect. I’ve bounced from being surrounded by family, then an army, the Commandos, and back to family, I haven’t really had space to figure out who I am away from all of that. I’m still working on finding that out, but the breathing room has been. . . enlightening. Is that word too hoity-toity? Probably. Oh well, you can make fun of me for it in a few days. As nice as it’s been to get away from the city, my fingers are itching for New York. Doesn’t hurt that you’re there._

_You having dinner with Bec doesn’t bother me a bit. I’m a little worried you’ll like her more than you like me, but I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Whatever she told you about Monopoly is a lie - I did_ _not_ _throw anything,_ _she_ _is the agressive board game addict. Unfortunately as per the Howlies, Peggy and Steve are not allowed to play Monopoly together. We tried when we were snowed in to camp one winter and I’m not exaggerating when I say they almost killed each other. Well, Peggy almost killed Steve. Those nails of hers are lethal, you know._

_Ma would be thrilled if you asked her to help you bake, although you will be in danger of her never letting you leave the kitchen ever again. The woman has a lot of wisdom to impart and all the time in the world. This may sound weird but. . . I like you getting along with my family. Not sure why. But it feels nice, having you fit in so seamlessly._

_One of the guys recently asked how long we’d been together and I really had to think about it for a second before answering. Not to wax poetic, but it’s strange to me that we’ve only known each other since April. Four months of knowing you and continuing to know you every day. You’re so familiar to my life now, I can hardly imagine a time when you weren’t in it._

_Thank you for having faith in me. Thank you for being an encourager. Thank you for opening up this new life to me. The world has only gotten brighter since you walked into that skyscraper all those months ago._

_By the time you get this, I’ll probably be within a few hours of home. But as of this moment, I’ll see you in 4 days. I can’t wait._

_See you soon,_

_Your Window Washer_


	14. Running Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky comes home, you find yourself in a compromising situation, and Bucky has a flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter has a fairly traumatic flashback from Bucky's time of service - if you think the violence or mentions of blood may be too much for you, skip the italicized portion at the end and just know it deeply affected Bucky. Thank you for reading! ❤

Saturday afternoon at Grand Central Station was tantamount to pure chaos, but you didn’t much mind since you’re there for a singularly joyful reason. The hubbub of both weary and excited travelers echoes across the cavernous main concourse; you can barely hear yourself think. People from all walks of life bustle around while you hover in the agreed-upon spot, waiting for a particular train to get in.

For the fourth time in 20 minutes you check the giant chalkboard along the main wall to confirm the train’s time of arrival before consulting your watch.

_Soon._

Somewhere in the last 34 days you had become the girl that ran to her mailbox each day after work with hopes of hearing from her beau. A girl that missed that boy more every moment he was away, life feeling dull in his absence. A girl that was a hopeless goner. A goner who had had to scrap more than one letter because she’d written  _Love, Sixth Floor_  or  _All My Love_ , or  _Love you!_  No one had told you how difficult love letters were to write without using the word ‘love’.

As you scrambled out your door in a rush to the train station not too long ago, you’d practically run over your unfortunate mailman. He’d had a letter for you - from Pennsylvania - and he chuckled as you couldn’t contain the giant smile on your face. Even he knew what a goner you were.

You’d plopped yourself on the front steps of your apartment and torn open the envelope, reading the letter three times before you walked mooney-eyed to the station, the paper still in hand. His words reverberated in your mind. You snort at the mental image of Peggy throwing herself over a table to maul Steve to death after he’d charged her an exorbitant amount of rent during Monopoly. He said he longed for New York because you were here. Bucky adored that you got along with his family, said you fit in  _seamlessly._  He thanked you for things that were so natural you didn’t even realize you were doing them.

Again your eyes settle on your favorite line - “You’re so familiar to my life now, I can hardly imagine a time when you weren’t in it.” Delicately you trace the word Bucky had written before your nickname -  _darling_ \- then run a finger over his soothing scrawl of ‘Your Window Washer’.

There were moments when you forgot how this had all begun. How you’d noticed a handsome window washer going about his duty, how he’d gone out of his way to interact with you, to make you smile. The moments you’d tried to connect and had barely missed one another. He really had been your window washer from the start, hadn’t he? You just hadn’t known it.

Your ears prickle to attention when they hear your name ringing clearly in the severely crowded area. Looking up from the letter your eyes rove the crowd as you shove it into your pocket.

Bright, sparkling eyes meet your own across the room.

Eyes that were attached to Bucky’s thousand-watt smile. He looks tired from the journey, but only someone who knew him as well as you could tell. With his suitcase in one hand and his jacket draped over the other arm, he cocked his hat at an incorrect yet very suave angle.

With several trains having just arrived, the concourse was rapidly becoming busier. Passengers exiting the rail cars took up almost all elbow-room available, ending in a flood of people between you and Bucky.

Taking several rushed steps through the hoarde you head in his general direction, continuously searching for that hat a head above the crowd. One moment you saw it, the next you were stuck in a crush of travelers. Finally there were only a few paces between you.

You hear the clunk of his suitcase hitting the ground a split second before your feet are swept from under you, Bucky’s arms strong and secure around your waist. He takes a superfluous little twirl around, pulling a relieved giggle from you. Feeling his heart beating against your chest shockingly sent the peaceful feeling of HOME thrumming through your veins. You didn’t know it was possible to feel home in a person.

Bucky heaves a sigh, one that reminds you of a house settling after a long day of activity. A hand smooths up your back and to the nape of your neck, sending tingles down your spine. When you feel his lips press delicately to the side of your head you’re grateful he’s got a hold on you because you’re fairly certain your knees would’ve given out. For all the affection you doted upon each other, none had ever felt quite so intimate, so. . . tender.

“People are staring,” you whisper in his ear.

He pulls back, granting you a view of that rugged face you’d so dearly missed over the past month. “Don’t care,” he smarts. Then he kisses you properly, scandalizing the old ladies walking past - hell, he was even scandalizing you a bit.

“Okay Romeo,” you lean away, laughing when his lips attempt to chase yours. “Let’s not make any grandparents roll over in their graves with our excessive public displays of affection.”

With that he snorts before reluctantly setting you back on your feet, though not taking his hands from you. He doesn’t say much, just gazes into your eyes. Almost as if he was guzzling a glass of water after having gone days feeling parched, he takes you in, seeming more nourished as the seconds ticked by.

“What, do I have some lunch left on my face?”

There’s that wide grin you love so much. Bucky runs the backs of his knuckles along your jaw and murmurs, “Oh yeah, I missed you a ton.” His head dips down once more, gracing you with a kiss so ardent it steals your breath. A firm hand to his chest separates you and you remind him to behave.

He only laughs heartily and stoops down to retrieve his luggage and hat you’d apparently knocked off during your embrace. You hang his jacket over one of your arms, looping the other around his elbow. Together you walk out of Grand Central and onto the New York streets, feeling like a piece of you had just been restored.

-x-

Over the following weeks, you and Bucky are rarely apart from each other. If you aren’t sleeping or working, you’re together. Suffice it to say, absence had definitely made the heart grow fonder. During those days there was a near-imperceptible but also impossible-to-miss shift between you. In the moments of intense relief of being reunited, the gravity of the relationship dawned upon you. You wonder if you would ever have reached that point if not for the distance and time away forced upon you.

There was a particular night you truly felt the relationship deepen. August was quickly coming to a close, a sense of change coming in the air in the mornings and evenings. It was a Thursday. You and Bucky had generously - well, at the time it had felt generous, but it turned out to bear more likeness to disastrous - offered to cook dinner for the pair of you as well as Peggy and Steve. The other couple was extremely kind about the ordeal, but it had been a mess and barely edible. Thankfully there was plenty of wine and laughter around the table to make up for it.

Having set your eyes on cleaning up the remnants of your destruction of the boys’ kitchen, you were promptly shooed away by Peggy.

“No, no - you cooked for us, we’ll clean the dishes,” she commanded, practically booting you into the living room.

You collapse onto the couch with a huff, not having realized how much time you’d spent standing in the kitchen over a meal that was most definitely not worth the effort. Without much grace Bucky plopped down next to you, head knocking against the back of the sofa, hand searching for yours.

“I really am sorry, Bucky, I told you Mom hadn’t passed down her exceptional cooking skills to me.”

“Don’t worry about it. I have a thing or two I can teach you,” he winks before closing his eyes.

“Although I do feel like we owe Peggy and Steve some sort of tangible apology for making them sit through that.”

He waves his free hand flippantly. “They’ll be fine, they’re big kids. Be thankful you weren’t around for Peg’s burnt pot roast debacle. I don’t think I’ll ever see angrier tears again in my life.”

The faint sound of running water from the kitchen combined with the clattering of dishes signals that Steve and Peggy were no doubt side by side in front of the sink, shirt sleeves rolled up and out of the way, bumping elbows in their homey little chore. Bucky talks about his work in the garage while idly flipping pages of a textbook he’d placed in his lap. He dutifully asks after your coworkers, expresses genuine care and concern for them which never fails to warm your heart.

A hum of conversation floats into the room and you give in to your exhaustion slightly, dropping your head to Bucky’s shoulder. “Are they okay? Sounds serious.”

“Work stuff,” he mumbles. “Not that you hadn’t guessed it, but they have a hard time leaving it in the office. Which is understandable considering what they do.” Bucky shifts his arm up, offering you a place to wiggle beneath it, nice and cozy in his side.

“Mmm, saving the world and all. I mean, at least it sounds like a better talk than the one we walked in on after the baseball game.”

“That was definitely a doozy. Apparently it turned out okay and they seem to be better off because of it. Steve said something about how getting everything out into the open always suited them better than keeping feelings to themselves.”

“Makes sense, I suppose. So tell me what your latest lesson is about, maybe I can help.” Bucky pours over paperwork he’d retrieved from the desk in his room, calling attention to marks he’d made on diagrams that had confused him, underlining terms for which he had a hard time finding definitions. For quite a while you work like that on the couch, listening, pointing things out, doing your best to help where you could and encourage where you couldn’t.

You hadn’t noticed how heavy your eyes had gotten until Peggy’s voice fills the room, causing you to bolt into sitting upright again. “You better leave soon or the neighbors will start talking,” she halfway teases before offering a graceful wave; both you and Bucky mutter goodbyes.

“I’m leaving soon, I promise,” you call out before the front door clicks shut as Steve and Peggy step outside for a moment to themselves.

Minutes later Steve comes back down the hallway, sleepily bidding you both goodnight before slinking to his bedroom.

“Ugh, the walk home is going to be horrible. We waited way too late tonight.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky sighs. “Just listen to my essay about the benefits of having a key-based ignition in the future and then I’ll take ya home.”

“Okay,” you agree, eyes drooping as you focus on his steady tone.

The next thing you know, a door squeaks open. A few heavy footsteps move in your direction and you hear Steve murmur, “Oh.”

You squint one eye, then the other open against the sunlight streaming through the living room windows. Looking around, your confusion only heightens when you realize you’re in the boys’ apartment. Moving to prop up on an elbow you glance to your side to see Bucky fast asleep on the couch, his shirt rumpled from where your face had just been plastered. A pile of textbooks and sheets of paper is in disarray around Bucky’s feet. Steve was standing in the doorway from the kitchen, looking slightly uncomfortable and a little worried in his blue striped cotton pajama set peeking from under his robe.

Swiping a hand across your eyes you realize with dismay that you’re still wearing makeup, which is now smeared all over your face. “What. . . what time is it?” you groan.

Steve looks to the clock on the wall. “Uhh. . . a little after eight.”

“Well that’s not so bad for a Saturday.”

“It’s. . . it’s Friday.”

“SHIT!” you clamber to your feet.

Your exclamation startles Bucky awake, looking as disoriented as you felt and extremely bothered by the anxiety you’re radiating.

“Oh my gosh, this is horrible, this’ll ruin me - we slept together!”

Bucky looks down at his mussed clothing hurriedly before confirming everything was where it had been the previous night. “Well, technically-”

“Shut it,” you snap as you dart around the apartment. “I stayed  _overnight_  in your home, society doesn’t care about technicalities. Oh my god, I’m going to be late for work by the time I get back to my apartment to change clothes. Flannery is either going to kill me or worse, fire me - WHERE ARE MY DAMN SHOES!” 

“I’m gonna start a pot of coffee,” Steve says to Bucky before slipping from the room.

“Baby, take a breath-”

“I don’t even have time for that, why didn’t I just go home early last night? Where did I put my purse?”

“Honey, it’s gonna be okay, will you stop for a minute?” 

Eyes wide you spin to him, arms thrust out. “How is this going to be okay? Debbie probably worried about me all night AND she’s going to think I’m easy for staying at my boyfriend’s so she probably won’t want to live with me anymore-”

Suddenly Bucky’s hands grip your shoulders, forcing you to a stop. “Hey,” he says firmly, yet with a touch of gentleness. “You’re gonna call Debbie right now and tell her it was too late last night, so you slept over at Peggy’s. Would it be worse to show up to work late or not go in at all?”

“Probably show up late, she’s a stickler for punctuality,” you squeak, heart still beating out of your chest.

“Then call in sick after you talk to your roommate. You’ve been a model employee, even Flannery knows people get sick sometimes. Take another deep breath for me - there ya go. No one has to know that we accidentally fell asleep on the couch, Steve’s not gonna say anything to anyone, okay?”

You only nod, too focused on stopping the hyperventilating.

“You’re alright, c’mere.” Drawing you into his chest, you press your forehead into it, willing your tense muscles to relax. “I’m due at Harvey’s garage today, how about you come with me? I know he’d love to see you and it’d feel good to be working together again, right? We can stop by your place on our way over so you can change. How does that sound?”

Even amid the panic a part of your heart keened at the comfort Bucky was providing, at the feeling of being cared for.

A few minutes later, your relieved roommate and a surprisingly sympathetic Flannery had been called and placated. After you’d calmed down, Steve offers you coffee and cereal while Bucky changes into the coveralls Harvey had given him; Steve threatened Bucky that if he skipped breakfast again, he’d tell Winnifred.

Before you know it you’re in the garage, playfully sticking out your tongue at Harvey’s teasing about playing hookie. You forget how much working with your hands brings you peace until you’re doing it again - the stress wound in your back eases as you help Bucky on a tune-up. With a hip propped on the front of the car, you watch as Bucky follows the checklist, testing the functions of various parts to make sure they’re up to snuff.

For the first time that tumultuous morning you take a look at the man next to you. What you see sends a ripple of unease through your gut. Even though you’d both slept like the dead last night, the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than they should have been and you find yourself mentally going over the last few days to remember if they were there earlier. With only his health in mind, you notice the coveralls are little looser than when he’d first tried them on for you.

“Bucky,” you ask. He hums in question from beneath the hood. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine, why?”

“I’m not trying to make conversation, I really want to know if you’re okay. You look tired. Well, you’ve been looking tired.”

He straightens and arches a sardonic brow. “That your way of saying I look ugly today?”

“Stop it, I’m being serious.”

“I mean, I feel tired but it’s been busy. Nothing different than usual.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“Enough.” He wipes grease from his hands before shutting the hood, evading your eyes.

“So that’s a no on sleeping. Between two jobs and school, you’re going to run yourself ragged.”

“School’s almost over.”

“You still have two more months!”

There’s a flash of emotion in his eyes you can’t quite identify before he consciously smooths it over. “I’m fine, doll. Really. I just. . .” You wait patiently. You almost think he’s not going to finish when he says, “I wanna work hard and do this right. All this is so I can have a better life. . . and so you can have one too.” He finally turns his eyes back to yours. “I’m afraid that if I don’t give this all I have, I won’t be good enough to pull it off. And I really want this to work.”

Internally you debate with yourself. More than anything you want to reassure him, to soothe him, to fix all his fears and problems. But there’s also a part of you reminding yourself that that’s not your job. It’s Bucky’s life, not yours. The last thing you wanted was to become a nag and drive him further away. 

You smile and drop the matter, hoping he’d take your concern gracefully. The rest of the day you work in semi-comfortable silence, each tip-toeing around the other and the subject.

That night, Bucky tosses and turns, your conversation playing over in his head. Maybe he’d been too harsh, maybe he should have been more gentle. Maybe he should take your advice and stop washing windows. But another voice (one that smacks of his father) pushes back, insists that all the work was necessary if he wants to be successful, to have a brighter future.

Finally, he drifts into a restless sleep, the all-consuming thoughts of a better life for himself and for you finally fading. Or so he thought.

-x-

_Cold. Cold cold cold. He’d been on that fucking hill for hours with his belly buried in dirt, waiting. Waiting waiting waiting. Funny how this job required hours of waiting and only seconds of action._

_Eyes slant to the watch he’d taken off and propped up on a stone. Nine minutes to go. Willing feeling to return to his hands, he flexed his grip on the familiar weapon he’d been cradling for hours._

_To calm his mind, he runs the math again - latitude, wind speed, relative motion. Check, check, check._

_The radio laying in the reeds buzzed softly with the other Commandos reporting in, just loud enough for him to hear._

_“He’s on the move, Barnes,” Jones relayed from his post across the street from the church, of which Bucky had a clear line of sight from his position. Bucky leans in, one eye shut against the world so he could zero in through his scope._

_The target appeared in the shadows of the doorway. Schmidt’s rumored new right-hand-man, Karl Fischer, almost as psychotic as Hydra’s leader. Falsworth had been able to get chummy with some of his men over drinks the night before, learn the faction was storing weapons in the sanctuary’s basement. Parishioners had shared that their priest had mysteriously disappeared after refusing to agree to the commander’s demands last week._

_Bucky knew that the individual he watched confer with Fischer was by no means a man of God, unless priests now walked around with crooked collars and Hydra weaponry stashed in their back waistband._

_The conspirators shake hands before leaning in to undoubtedly whisper two words that he had grown to loathe as they were murmured over him dozens of times while he lay strapped to an operating table in Azzano._

_They pull apart and the target takes one step down the stairs._

_Bucky’s finger holds tension tight on the trigger._

_Two steps._

_There’s a thought nibbling at the back of his mind. Begging for attention. But there’s no time._

_Three steps._

_The rifle’s kickback slams into his shoulder as his eye remains trained on the commotion in his scope._

_Bucky blinks._

_Fischer was still standing._

_Had he missed? Were his calculations off? He fires again and finally sees the wretched man crumble. Then Bucky sees the other form on the ground and his stomach drops._

_  
He hadn’t missed. Not totally._

_Radio and watch forgotten on the ground he bolts for the trees, for the Harley he’d stashed beneath fallen branches before the sun had come up._

_The rest of the Commandos were following the plan, corralling Fischer’s cronies before they could spread news of their leader’s demise._

_Dugan shouts something at him as he speeds into the square, all but leaping off the bike when he nears the church._

_Bucky’s presence perturbed Steve; if Bucky was here, something was wrong. Stepping over the score of soldiers he’d already managed to incapacitate for the time being, he rushed to meet his friend._

_“Buck, what’re you-”_

_He ducked a shoulder into Steve - which was more like hitting a brick wall - to move past him to the church steps._

_Heavy footfalls take him over the long-dead Fischer to the small body one stair above him where Bucky comes to kneel._

_Her hair was dark, like his sisters’. She was young like them too. Except he’d never seen this much blood from one of their scraped knees._

_A local. Had probably been praying inside before she went about the rest of her day. The overturned basket with meager rations strewn down the steps taunted him._

_Bucky struggled to make sense of what happened. Fischer must have slipped or perhaps had a premonition and used her as a shield right as the shot had been fired._

_A shot that had taken a blameless life. Bucky’s shot._

_He wasn’t naive. He knew every action taken by each soldier sent ripple effects that altered the lives of many - but he’d never been face-to-face with the outright consequence of his profession._

_Being so focused on Fischer, he hadn’t even noticed another person in the vicinity. And this young woman he held - when had he started holding her? - had paid the price for it._

_Gradually Bucky became aware of Steve’s insistent tugging on his shoulder._

_If they broke down over every innocent caught in the crossfire they would all have lost their minds by now. Everyone had to harden that part of themselves - not for convenience, but for survival. Bucky thought he’d mastered the act, but this girl couldn’t be much older than Evie._

_“Steve, I-” Bucky sees his anguish reflected in the blue eyes of his best friend._

_  
“I know, Buck. I’m sorry. But they’ve got her.”_

_Suddenly he’s sees the other villagers surrounding them, grief tracking down their cheeks. Reaching to take her away from him, to weep and mourn this sweet loved one whose time on earth was finished._

_Staggering to his feet, Bucky swayed at the blood covering his clothing. Steve steadied him with an iron grip on his arm, a hand to his back._

_“Mea culpa,” Bucky whispers against the wind, the sight of her unmoving eyes burning into his memory._

_She wasn’t getting a better life. Why should he?_


	15. Deserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reader and Bucky's relationship hits a few bumps as Bucky withdraws after his triggering nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: Language, PTSD symptoms, lots of angst, Bucky is sad, allusions to horrible war time, self-loathing, etc.

Chevrolet Corporate, Anderson’s desk, how may I help you?” you rattle off into your desk phone’s handset, distracted by the rough draft of a memo your boss had tossed on your desk with little instruction.

“Hey, baby.”

The paper falls from your fingertips. “Buc-? Hi, wh- are you okay?”

You hear a sigh and then, “Sorry to call you at work, I know it could get you in trouble. Wanted to catch you early.”

It doesn’t escape your notice that he hadn’t answered your question. “What can I do for you today, sir?” You phrase the question again, warily eyeing Flannery across the office.

“‘M gonna have to bow out of dinner tonight. I know it’s my second time this week, I’m just absolutely beat, think I may be getting sick. I’m leaving work right now. Wouldn’t be much fun company.”

“Oh,” you deflate in your chair. “We’re sorry to hear that, sir. Is there anything we could do to accommodate you? Perhaps an alteration to the proposed agenda?”

“I don’t think so. Just wanna be home and go to sleep. I’m sorry, I know we haven’t seen each other this week. I’ll make it up to you.”

You keep your voice professional, shoving down your disappointment. “There’s no need for that, sir. I’ll make note of the change in schedule and be in touch at a later date to confirm with your office.”

“Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Feel better,” you whisper before setting the receiver down. Something in his tone haunts you the rest of the morning and well into the lunch hour. You don’t hear the break room’s topic of debate as you push your leftovers aimlessly around your pyrex. A bitter taste had settled in your mouth after the unexpected phone call.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Suzy slides into the seat next to you, sounding too casual for your taste.

“Got a lot on my mind.” You chew another mouthful of fruit in contemplation.

“This have to do with your dreamboat?”

“I’m really not in the mood today, Suze.”

“That’s fine. But are you okay?”

Chewing your lip, you turn to her. Her red curls had a little extra bounce but her eyes betrayed her concern for you. “Not really. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s not right with him. I can’t shake the idea that he’s avoiding me.”

“Did anything specific happen? You guys have a fight?”

“No fighting. . . though he acted strangely after our last date.”

“Strange how?”

_The yellow and orange leaves beneath your feet had a distinct crunch to them synonymous with the time of year. It had been a standard evening out for the two of you: comfort food from the diner, a shared piece of pie, and a stroll along the streets. Now that the temperature had been dropping slowly, you could nestle closer to each other._

_“‘M just saying, you’ve picked the pie the last few times, I’m past due to choose the flavor.”_

_“But Bucky, you pick blackberry every time, I’m giving us some variety!” you protested._

_“Why would you stray from a pie that never fails you? One that never gives up, that truly strives to be its best for us-”_

_“Are you eating this pie or marrying it?”_

_“It’s crossed my mind.”_

_Your giggles and his chuckles echoed, the street lamps lighting your way home._

_“I don’t know why you’re with me then, sounds like pie is your true-”_

_A loud **pop**  shattered the peace of the night and Bucky went rigid. Before you knew what was happening a shove knocked the breath out of you and you ended up several steps behind your boyfriend. He’d grabbed a pipe out of a nearby trash can, ready to wield it against anyone._

_“Buck, it’s okay.” You reached out to grab his shoulder and he immediately jerked away from you, chest heaving. “Hon, it was just a car back-firing.”_

_His eyes were wide and terrified, grip tight on the pipe._

_“We’re okay, Buck. We’re safe, nothing is going to hurt us.”_

_“Right. Sorry. That . . . was an overreaction.”_

_“You alright?” you stepped toward him. “I know you-”_

_He took a surreptitious step backward. “I’m fine, uh. . . yeah, I’m fine. Oh, and your door’s right here.”_

_“Bucky, you’re not-”_

_“I’m good, really. I’ll see you in a few days, right? Hope you sleep well.”_

_Decidedly distracted, he brushed his lips against your forehead and took off down the street, loosening his tie. Watching him leave kicked up a storm of confusion in your mind._

“And I haven’t seen him since,” you conclude, leaning forward to put your head in your hands.

The gentle hand on your back surprises you but you don’t shy away from the comfort. “It’s gonna be okay, babydoll. We all go through stuff, sounds like his stuff is a little heavy right now.”

“Then why isn’t he asking me to help?”

That’s the question still on your mind when you get home from work that night and make a call to Steve and Bucky’s apartment.

“Sorry ma’am, no one’s answering at the residence,” the operator drones in your ear. “Is there another number you’d like me to call?”

“No, thank you.” You stare at the telephone as if it had personally offended you, eyebrows knit closely together, arms crossed.

Somewhere in the space of the last three weeks you had messed up, done something to send Bucky running for the hills. You wrack your brain for an explanation, an event or conversation that was even the slightest bit terse. Coming up empty you sigh and force yourself to continue about your evening.

One day passes with no word from Bucky.

Another day goes by silently.

At the end of the third day you find yourself staring at the phone again, debating your next move. 

A girl was allowed to call her boyfriend, right? Especially after not having seen each other in a while, at least to say hi and catch up on the day - and he said he was sick, surely it was alright, even expected to check on him. You reach for the handset. 

Then again, he’d clearly been sending signals that something wasn’t right, perhaps you should just leave it alone. You snatch your hand back to yourself, drawing it up to pick at your lip nervously. 

But Steve, on the other hand. . .

Shockingly, the line connects.

“Hullo?”

“Steve? It’s me.”

“Hey,” Steve’s voice warms, “you wanna talk to Buck?”

“I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh, okay. What’s going on?”

You twist a finger around the phone cord, digging for the right words. “Is Bucky okay?”

“‘Okay’?” you can practically see his forehead wrinkled in confusion.

“I’m not sure why, but he’s been distant over the last few weeks. I don’t know if it’s me or what, but is he safe? Is he okay?”

“He’s, uh. . .” Steve lowers his voice. “He’s been better. Seems to be having a tough time. I thought you knew that, though.”

“No, I haven’t seen him for two weeks.”

“Really?” Clearly as shocked as you were, his tone turns suspicious. “He’s been avoiding me too. In passing he mentioned that his classes have been giving him some trouble, but I figured he’d seek you out with help on that.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Me too.”

“Huh. Thanks for letting me know, lemme see what I can do from my end. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thank you, Steve. That makes me feel better.”

“Of course. Take care of yourself, okay?”

With a smile you bid him goodbye and hang up, hoping he could make some headway.

* * *

Bucky hears Steve hang up the phone and hopes to God he’s not in for a well-meaning chit-chat.

But of course, a knock comes on Bucky’s cracked-open door, and he can’t really deny Steve entrance. Turning back to the pile of classwork on his desk, Bucky busies himself with a half-finished essay. His friend perches against the dresser, ankles and arms crossed.

Bucky scratches absentmindedly at some stubble on his cheek before grunting, “Whaddya want, Steve?”

“Your girl just called. Said she hasn’t heard from you. She’s worried.”

“Been busy.”

“That’s bullshit.” The pencil in Bucky’s hand snaps in two and he forces himself to let go of the pieces and keep his hands flexed open. “What happened, Buck?”

The aftermath of the nightmare - the first that had plagued him in several months - comes back to Bucky. He’d woken in a cold sweat, hands shaking violently, head pounding. Banging out of his room he’d sprinted for the bathroom faucet, dousing his face in ice cold water to shock his senses back to him. Light sleeper that he was, Steve was there in seconds. Bucky had snapped at him when asked what was wrong, had told him to leave him be. He should’ve known Steve wouldn’t leave it for long.

With effort, Bucky spits out, “The day we took Fischer down.” Any additional detail would have been Bucky’s undoing; he knew Steve could connect the dots.

The blond brings up a hand to cover his mouth, heaving a deep breath. “Yeah, that one’s given me nightmares too.”

“Does it? You don’t show it.”

“We’ve pretended not to hear each others’ nightmares for a long time, pal, no use continuing that charade.”

Silence stretches between them for several minutes. Bucky stewing, Steve waiting.

“Why was it them and not us, Steve?”

Steve knew ‘them’ wasn’t just the girl at the church, wasn’t attached to a singular person or event - ‘them’ stood for every life lost in the war that had stripped the world bare of too many things to count.

“I wish I could tell you.”

Clearing the emotion from his throat, Bucky’s next question surprises Steve. “How do you not let it eat you up?”

Shaking his head, Steve replies, “Some days it does. You know I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve, but I try to talk about it. With you, with Peg, sometimes one of the other guys. If you let it stay in your head, it only grows bigger.”

“I don’t know if I can do that right now.”

“That’s okay. And it doesn’t have to be me you talk to if you don’t want. But do me a favor?”

Bucky finally shifts in his chair to look Steve directly in the eye, lifting a brow as if to ask “And what would that favor be?”

“Don’t shut her out. You know you can’t scare her away. Obviously she wants to be part of your life, so let her. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

_As messed up as I am, is it fair to her to drag her down with me?_

* * *

Bucky was grateful for the quiet apartment - Steve was away on business, his classwork was in a lull, and the day’s work had drained him. All he wanted was to eat and fall into bed. The thought of skipping another meal tempted him as he dreamed of what could possibly be a restful night of sleep.

Soft knocks at the front door startle him away from his bedroom. Slowly, he steps to the door in socked feet. Pressing an eye to the peephole, his heart drops into his stomach and threatens to pound right out of his body. You’re waiting on the other side, fiddling with something in your hands. 

You look nervous.

“Bucky?” How could a voice feel like home but also make him dizzy with anxiety? Letting his forehead rest against the door, he realizes how much he’s missed the sound.

He can feel the second rap of knuckles reverberate through his head. Your voice wraps around him again.

_Open the door, Barnes. She’s right there. You need her._

Shame whispers, “But does she need you as a burden? Does she need this broken man in her life?”

A voice that sounded like Steve urges him to open the door, to let himself be vulnerable. 

The doorknob tenses under his grip.

But he doesn’t move. He can’t.

“I don’t know if you’re even home right now, but uh. . .” he hears you sniffle, prompting his eye to focus again on the peephole. You wipe at your cheek - Bucky convinces himself it couldn’t be because of him. “I got something for ya. You mentioned in one of your letters that writing things down cleared your mind, helped you move past things. And while I don’t really know if you’re going through something or just want to be alone for whatever reason. . . I just hope this helps.”

You stoop down, setting whatever you’d been holding against the door. Straightening, you turn to leave, pause, then face the door again. “I miss you, ya know.”

Hesitant footsteps retreat down the breezeway, your tread easy and familiar in his mind.

Only after counting out a few minutes Bucky cracks the door open. A small packages falls to his feet with a surprisingly solid  _ **thud**_. He nudges the door closed and pulls at the twine, then the brown paper wrapping.

Shaky fingers feel at the strong, yet simple leather cover of a journal. He flips through the unlined pages, mind reeling at your memory of something he couldn’t recall mentioning to you. Forcing air into his lungs he cradles the book as if it were a priceless artifact; maybe for him it was.

Opening to the first page his eyes are immediately drawn to black ink, to your familiar handwriting.

_Whether it’s with me or without me, I hope you find peace._

You’d left your initials beneath the note, as if he ever would have questioned whose hand had written the inscription. He lets out a humorless laugh before his knees weaken. Letting himself be taken to the floor, he leans against the door, clutching the journal to his chest.

And on the floor of his empty apartment where he wept the full anguish of his soul, it was a lifeline.

* * *

_This was a bad idea. I should go home. This is stupid._

Bucky’s foot taps against the sidewalk outside of your work building impatiently. He’d been there a few minutes already, knowing your schedule like the back of his hand. A deep urge to finally speak with you had brought him this far, though he was fighting the pull to run back home.

Just as he had convinced himself to turn around, you emerge from the front door and he’s frozen in place.

The notion of home floats through his mind as he watches you, hair only slightly rumpled from your day of work. Poised, graceful as ever, a true striking presence on the sidewalk - earning more turned heads than you would ever be aware of. 

So focused on making sure your hat was perfectly in place, you don’t notice Bucky until he’s right next to you. 

“Hi,” his mind goes blank as he stares into your eyes, wide as dinner plates at his sudden appearance.

“Bucky. . . uh, hi,” you stammer. “Wh-what’re you-”

“Can I walk you home?”

“Y-yeah, absolutely.”

Together, you traverse the deeply familiar path home, though a pace apart. 

“How’s the family?” you ask, reaching for an innocuous subject to fill the dead air.

“Uh, good. I’ve missed the last few Sunday dinners, but I assume everything is fine.”

“Oh.”

“Are you - you doing alright?”

“I’m . . . okay. Been a long few weeks.”

He watches the ground as you walk, the click of your heels on pavement bringing sweeter memories to the forefront of his mind. But then the rhythmic sound stops and he looks up, shocked to see your apartment. You’ve turned to face him and his eyes are drawn to how you’re picking at your cuticles.

“Can we sit?” you motion to the brick steps leading up to your door. He nods and you perch on the stairs, closer to each other than you’d been for weeks. “Bucky. . .” 

“Yeah?”

“I. . .” you turn your eyes back to your fiddling fingers in your lap. “I just need to know if this,” you gesture between you, “is over so I can not think of you as mine anymore. If it is, I can handle it and move on.”

Bucky’s mouth hangs open, at a loss for words. You take that as a cue to continue.

“But if this isn’t over. . . you don’t have to meet my parents next month, if that freaked you out. Or if I came on too strong when you got back from Pennsylvania, I can back off. Just. . .” your eyes finally move to meet his and the uncertainty in them was foreign to him, “tell me what I did wrong so I don’t do it again?”

His mind reels as he sits back to take a long look at you. You were serious. You genuinely thought this was a result of something you’d done - but why would you think any differently?

You don’t know how not seeing you left an aching hole in his chest. You don’t know how often he thought of you, how many times he’d frozen when the operator had asked who he’d wanted to be connected to only to hang up. You don’t know about the wad of cash in his sock drawer for which he had sparkling ambitions. Without knowing that, what other conclusion were you supposed to draw?

“I’m such an ass,” he mutters aloud, much to your furthered confusion. After dragging hands harshly down his face he threads his fingers in yours. “Sweetheart, this hasn’t been about you, not in the slightest.”

“Then what is it about? If it wasn’t something I did, what happened?” Your grip on his hands almost breaks his heart completely - like you were scared he’d bolt if you let go.

Words stick in his throat and he swallows in an attempt to dislodge the lump that had formed there. 

“Buck, it’s me. You can say it.”

“I. . . I don’t even know where I’d start.”

“The beginning?” you gently suggest.

At your urging, he begins haltingly, stumbling over words, hoping he was making some kind of sense. “Uhhh. The night after we spent the day at the garage together. I had a nightmare, a memory of being in Europe. A young woman died - she died because of me. It felt like I was there again. I could feel the cold air and the smell of. . . I relived it that night. The days seemed to get worse after that.”

Details begin to spill from his lips - slowly, then all at once. Things he couldn’t have recalled if asked suddenly were toppling into your lap, unorganized, bloody, and heavy. He recounts the sleepless nights, the images seared in his brain from the battlefront, the components of war rarely shared with civilians that had taken a good portion of his innocence and good conscience.

Pausing, he clears his throat and scratches his chin. “It’s hard to talk about,” he admits in a low voice.

You’ve been silent, but present until this moment. “I know. Thank you for sharing with me.”

“The last few weeks have been a fight between wanting - no, needing - you to bring some light into my life; and living in fear that my darkness may snuff your own light out. I can’t take you down with me, you don’t deserve that.”

“Don’t I get a say in it?”

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he withdraws a hand from yours to dash at them. “I hate this,” he sniffles. “I thought I was getting better, that this was behind me. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what, being human?”

“For being like this when my life has gotten better. I’ve been home for so long, I should be past this by now.”

Your hands are on his cheeks, tilting his head to look into your eyes again. “Says who? Honey, things like this, it’s not a simple trip from point A to point B. This kind of healing takes time. And a backslide isn’t an indicator of failure.”

“Sure feels like I failed at something.”

“But you haven’t,” you insist firmly. He doesn’t respond and you pull your hands away, hesitantly grasping his again. “Why haven’t you been home to see your family?” you ask after a few moments of reflection.

“The girl I . . . that. . . she reminds me of my sisters. It’s hard to look at them and not see her after. . . it happened. I don’t want to attach that memory to them more than it already is.”

Your chest heaves with a long breath as if you were preparing to dive into deep water. “Your time serving, the things you saw. . . they affected you. You have to admit that.”

“It bothers me, sure, but I didn’t come back wounded. I made it in one piece, I don’t have a reason for being this shaken by it.”

“Just because you’re physically safe doesn’t mean your mind didn’t take on injuries. You’ve been through so much-”

Brusquely, he cuts you off. “My mind is fine. I’m not a coward.”

“Bucky, I know that. Everyone knows that. This isn’t about cowardice or weak minds, or whatever nonsense doctors and generals say it is. To survive what you have, to have made so much progress to get to a place where you’re working and taking care of yourself. . . it’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen. You’ve chosen a career path. You’re almost done with the training while juggling two jobs, family, and a demanding girlfriend.” Both his lips and yours twitch at your teasing. Then you soften again. “You know I’ve seen this up-close with my uncle. You’re not alone and you’re not crazy.” 

Bucky’s face must have mirrored the doubt he felt inside. 

“You said Steve has episodes too right?” He nods. “Do you think that he has a weak moral character? This man, who you think the world of - do you consider him mentally fragile? No,” you answer for him as he can only shake his head. “Then why would you flip that onto yourself? Why would Steve’s hand-picked second-in-command be considered weak? You wouldn’t because you’re not.”

He couldn’t think of an argument against that - but you took his silence to be dubious.

Your voice is hesitant, unsure. “They do have psychiatric hospitals-”

“I’m not desperate enough for that.” The second the words left his mouth he hears how harsh they sound.

“Do you have to be desperate to ask for help?”

“I shouldn’t need help!” he exclaims suddenly. “Other men came back fine, Dad never went through this. I don’t know how to be this way without feeling like shit about myself. Besides, from the stories I’ve heard, what they do is more similar to torture than treatment.”

You’ve shrunken back, shoulders hunched forward as if to ward off his tone. “Okay. I won’t mention it again. I’m sorry.”

“No,” he huffs in frustration. “I should be the one that’s sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve been to hell and back which would make anyone’s soul weary. Please be kinder to yourself.”

“I don’t deserve your kindness, let alone my own. But for some reason, Sixth Floor, you’re giving it to me in spades. I don’t understand.”

“Caring for someone doesn’t always entail what they deserve - but I assure you, you are absolutely deserving of all the patience and gentleness. You are one of the most noble men I’ve ever known.” If the conviction in your voice hadn’t rung so clear, he’d think you were full of it.

“How can you still say that after how I’ve treated you?” He doesn’t give you the chance to respond. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to lose you baby, I just, I lo. . . I love you too much. And the thought of having pushed you away makes me sick, but I won’t blame you for walking away because of how I’ve acted.”

A sad smile crosses your face as you press your forehead to his before whispering fiercely, “Love isn’t a feeling, it’s an action. I love you to the very bottom of my heart, James. Can you let me love you? Let me show you? I want to be here, if you’ll have me.”

With most of his energy channeled containing sobs, he offers a nod. Leaning in to each other, your lips unite for the first time in too long - earnest, sweet love mingled with relief pours between you. 

Pulling back only slightly, Bucky’s blue eyes search your own. “I missed you,” he murmurs roughly as his thumb wipes away a tear from your chin. 

“I missed you, too,” you return as the pads of your fingers swipe against his wet cheeks.

He lets that settle on his bones for future nights where he may hear whispers of doubt about you and your devotion.

“I wanna get better for you, darling.” He meant it sweet, touching, but you shake your head.

“No.”

He begins to shift away from you, your previous words with the solitary one dissonating, but a hand to the back of his neck holds him fast.

“Don’t get better for me. James Buchanan Barnes is worthy enough to get better for himself.” You interrupt what was obviously going to be a protest from him. “You’re the one that has to live with yourself. I don’t plan on going anywhere, but I also can’t fight this battle for you, as much as I wish I could.”

“I don’t know what getting better for myself even looks like.”

Your eyebrows settle into determination, a directness in your gaze. “Your training is almost done. Quit washing windows, focus on finishing well. Life is about to change for the better. Refocus, take a breather. And let the people in your life love you.”

“I. . . I’ll try.”

“That’s all I can ask. Except. . .” You bite your lip, as if pondering whether you should continue.

“What?” he prompts.

A twinkle returns to your eye and you lean in even closer, “You could shave the beard before you meet my parents or they’ll think I’m dating a hobo.”

For the first time in weeks, a laugh bubbles up through Bucky and out into the world with joy that was anything but hollow.


	16. The Highs and the Lows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader feels many things at Evelyn's wedding and drama at work throws her for a loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for discussion of sexual assault.

On a lovely Saturday afternoon in the heart of October, a chapel filled with friends and family erupted in applause as Evelyn’s freshly-proclaimed husband leaned down for their first kiss as a married couple. Hand tucked into Bucky’s, you nuzzle together for the entirety of the ceremony. There was not a dry eye in the Barnes family pew, save for the sleeping newborn Joseph nestled in Rose’s arms. Husband and wife practically floated down the aisle, her modest white dress simple and so very Evelyn.

You and Bucky arrive late to the reception, serving as Winnifred’s personal heroes for picking up the forgotten wedding cake from a family friend. You follow her specific instructions for its placement on the banquet table as the rest of the guests mingle in the church hall.

The space was by no means small, but the mass of people filing in gave the illusion of a much tinier venue. However, the air moved with the joy of the occasion. A few friends of the bride and groom joined together to provide a bit of music to accompany the mood and the crowded dance floor.

It’s not until the cake has been cut and the punch bowl refilled several times over before you finally find Bucky’s mother standing thoughtfully to one side of the room. You move to stand next to her, filled cups in hand for you and your boyfriend. Following Winnifred’s gaze, eyes land on Evelyn giggling among a group of friends.

“She looks beautiful, doesn’t she?” Winnifred sighs.

“Sure does, she’s practically glowing. It’s been a big couple of weeks for y’all, huh?”

“Between Rose giving birth, Becca moving to her apartment, and wedding preparation, there’s been a lot going on.”

“Aren’t you shocked that Bucky’s the only one who hasn’t given you any recent trouble?” The unexpected trill of laughter from the matriarch settles your heart a bit. Winnifred Barnes unsettled was about as comforting as finding Flannery hovering around your desk.

“Indeed, I am. We are officially empty nesters now.”

You lower your voice, lean in closer. “You doing okay?”

Soulful, shiny eyes meet yours. “Thank you for asking, dear. I’m so happy my children  are all doing well, I truly am. But some days are harder than others; I can’t help but feel like I’ve done everything I can for them.”

“Winnifred, your job will never be done, we- they,” you correct yourself, “will always need you. You still have so much to give. Two things will never change: you’re their mother, and they love you.”

With your hands full, Winnifred settles for a quick squeeze to your elbow. “I hope you know, I am immensely grateful you are in our lives.”

You share a grin and before either of you can get emotional you whisper in her ear, “And I need you because you’ve yet to share your blackberry pie recipe with me.”

She giggles again and your concern for her dissipates. “Go on, you. Someone is waiting on that punch.”

You weave through the crowd toward the corner table where you’d last seen Bucky, smiling at aunts and uncles along the way - whose names you’ve already forgotten - and sidestepping little ones playing tag. 

Once you break through the crush of people, the sight laying before you nearly makes you stumble in surprise. Bucky was in the middle of a discussion with Steve, but that’s not what you were focused on. Consuming your attention is sweet baby Joseph gingerly - daresay, perfectly - resting in the crook of his uncle’s elbow. The infant was swaddled in several blankets against the fall chill, but his tiny face peeked out, eyes roving the noisy party. 

It’s not that Bucky holding a baby was a surprise so much as how comfortable he looked while doing it. Holding Joseph only took up on arm, leaving Bucky to gesture casually with his other. With one ankle on the opposite knee, you hadn’t caught him this relaxed in a while. You’d seen this man hanging off of buildings, covered in motor oil, in three-piece suits and jumpsuits alike - you had not expected the picture of him so affectionately cuddling a child to bring you to a literal halt.

Giving your head a gentle shake you approach the small group, hoping they’d missed your pause. The men were none the wiser, but when you catch Peggy giving you a knowing smirk from her place between them you know those hopes were dashed. You’d feel slightly more self-conscious if you hadn’t caught her eyes softening when Rose had insisted that Uncle Steve needed to hold the baby before the ceremony.

After setting Bucky’s cup on the table in front of him, you run fingers through Joseph’s downy hair as you take your own seat. The little one coos and leans into your touch before settling into Bucky again.

“I must say Bucky,” Peggy purrs, “you look as comfortable holding that child as Steve does throwing himself at Nazis.”

Steve opens his mouth in indignation but Bucky answers before he can stop sputtering. “Eh, comes with the territory of being the oldest child. This is nothing.”

“I don’t  _throw_  myself at Nazis. Not anymore at least,” Steve grumbles into his glass.

“Even I know you can’t keep your nose out of trouble, Steve.”

Your rye comment draws laughter from the table. A sharp cry from the bundle in Bucky’s arms draws all your attention and he leans down, running a finger along Joseph’s cheek. “What’s wrong, buddy?”

“That’s my cue,” Rose materializes over Bucky’s shoulder and holds her arms out for her son. “Thanks for letting me and John dance, Buck.”

“Anytime, Rosie.” You watch Bucky’s face as his eyes follow his sister’s retreating back. Were you imagining the wistful glimmer in his eye?

Before you can dwell on it too long, Bucky’s caught you looking - causing both of you to blush.

You clear your throat. “Speaking of old habits dying hard, has Bucky shared his recent garage anecdote?”

Steve shakes his head and Bucky throws his head back in exasperation as you continue.

“After he’s finished any interior work on a car, Bucky cleans every single window on the vehicle. It’s been driving the other mechanics crazy.”

“I mean, does it really hurt? The smudges drive  _me_  crazy. And it’s not as bad as you working on vehicles while barefoot.”

“I was not barefoot, I keep my stockings on! Stockings are easier to clean motor oil out of than shoes. And you couldn’t be late for another date or your girlfriend was going to flip her lid.”

“I’d beg to-”

“Not that I don’t love when you two bicker,” Becca snarks as she arrives at the table, “but we’re getting ready to throw the rice.”

Beneath the rain of said rice, Evelyn and Robert trot to the car waiting at the curb to carry them to their honeymoon in the Poconos. At the urging of the whistling and cheering crowd, they share one more kiss before pulling into the street.

The closest family members - including Steve and Peggy - stay behind to pack decorations into the back of George’s car and clean the banquet hall for the next day’s services.

While you and Peggy wrestle to fold a round tablecloth, one of Winnifred’s brothers assists Bucky in folding and storing the tables. The edges of the conversation float just within hearing distance.

“Two Barnes kids married now, huh James?”

“Yessir,” Bucky says in that tone used to placate older relatives.

“Two to go. When’re you getting hitched? Your girl seems like a keeper.”

A cough comes from the younger man and your Peggy grins at your wide eyes.

“I, uh - we. . . we haven’t talked about it just yet.”

“You ain’t getting any younger and I’d imagine she’s a hot commodity.”

“When I get married, it’ll be because we love each other, not for fear of her wanting someone else, Uncle Charlie. Let’s get these boxes into the car, yeah?”

Amid their retreating steps you cover your face and groan. “Can I just crawl into a hole and hide for the rest of the year?”

Peggy pats your arm after adding the last tablecloth to the pile. “Now, a hole is no place for a hot commodity such as yourself.”

She only chuckles at the tongue you stick out in her direction.

* * *

Shoving open the door to the ladies’ bathroom you continue grumbling your frustrations to Suzy, who is right on your heels. “I can’t even hunt him down for a signature, where the hell is he running off to?”

Suzy snorts. “At least your boss’s breath doesn’t reek of stale coffee. I swear the next time he leans in to make a gross joke, I’ll gag for more than one reason. I’d rather him not be around than that.”

“Well yours is only a jackass, mine is a jackass and hates women.”

A sniffle from the one occupied stall brings you both to a standstill. A look is shared between you before Suzy knocks on the door. “You okay in there?”

“I’m okay, thanks.” The door unlatches and a disheveled Marjorie steps out, the smile on her face anything but genuine. Her normally clear brown eyes are rimmed with red, her breathing shallow and wet.

Suzy gasps, one arm already coming around the freshman employee’s shoulders. “Marjorie, what happened?”

She flutters a shaky hand in the air. “It’s really nothing.”

You turn from where you’d been moistening a few paper towels for Marjorie’s flushed face and insist, “It’s obviously not nothing.”

“I. . .” her lower lip quivers and she ducks her head before a sob overtakes her; she crumples into Suzy’s open arms.

“What’s going on?” you ask, slightly more gentle at Suzy’s pointed look.

Marjorie pulls back, accepting the paper towels to dab at the makeup beneath her eyes and whispers, “Anderson.”

Your blood runs cold. “What about him?”

“He. . . nevermind, it’s not important, I should get back-.”

You level her with a stern gaze. “Marjorie.”

The young girl looks down at her fidgeting hands and you have to lean in to hear her soft voice. “I’m sure you noticed he’s been rather insistent about talking with me when he’s in the office. This morning he cornered me in the supply closet. He said some things and. . .”

“And he what?” Suzy presses. You can imagine the metaphorical steam billowing from your ears at what Marjorie hadn’t yet said, but you already knew.

Her breath stutters. “He got handsy.”

“It wasn’t the first time?” The shake of her head causes new tears to roll down her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” Suzy murmurs, reaching a hand up to press soothing circles into her back.

“It’s happened before at other jobs, I should be used to it. I don’t know why it still upsets me every time it happens.” The frustration in her voice - frustration aimed at herself - sent you over the edge.

“Because it shouldn’t be happening!” You can’t help the outrage that leaks into your words. “We have to tell Flannery.”

“No!” The single syllable was pronounced in the most firm, loud tone you’d heard from the quiet typist in the months since she’d started working there. “I’m not going to do that.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll get fired!”

You scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Newbie,” Suzy chides.

“I’m not being ridiculous, I’m being realistic. I can’t lose this job, I just can’t. I appreciate your concern, but I’ll be alright, thank you.” Shrugging away from Suzy’s touch, she quietly leaves the bathroom and your anger in her wake.

“She’s not wrong, ya know.”

You turn in surprise to your friend. “About what?”

“Getting fired. And raising a stink with a complaint about a manager? I’ve seen girls let go for a lot less than that.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Suzy shrugs. “It doesn’t, but that’s the way it is. They want girls on staff who keep their heads down and don’t cause a fuss.” 

“But- that’s not okay!”

“Leave it alone, hon.”

You return to your desk and stew over what you’d learned for approximately two minutes before you’re on your feet again.

When Marjorie and Suzy had disappeared from the bullpen for various tasks you took the chance to approach Flannery. The office manager looks up at you in surprise when you’ve reached her desk. “Ms. Flannery, could I speak with you? In private?” you add.

Her eyes narrow for a flicker of a moment before rising and gesturing to an empty office nearby. Before she’s closed the door behind you, your words come out in a rush.

“Marjorie won’t tell you this, but I will because something needs to be done. Anderson attacked her today in the supply closet and he’s done it before. He is completely horrible and gotta be stopped.”

Flannery stiffly perches on the edge of the bare desk, shoulders slumping. Her not sitting ram-rod straight was more than troubling and did not bode well for the rest of the conversation. “Unfortunately, that’s not possible.”

Red clouds your vision before you grit out, “Why is that?”

“I have tried. None of these corporate men place stock in what a woman has to say. And if they do, somehow the woman ends up being at fault. If I write a report, I guarantee Marjorie will lose her job because she’s not worth the trouble.”

“Wouldn’t that be better than staying in this environment and getting harassed?” 

“That is very easy for you to say - your salary is not supporting a family. This has been her third job this month, I suspect for the same unfortunate reason. She has a lot at stake. Therefore, needs to be the one to push this claim forward - not you.” 

It takes several moments before you reign in your righteous anger so it doesn’t spill over onto an innocent party. “Why would he fixate on her? She doesn’t work for him, wouldn’t it make more sense to target me?” 

“Unlike Marjorie, you radiate energy that says you would not be afraid to maim him if he laid a hand on you.”

“So she was singled out because she’s meek? Because she’s too polite?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And he has learned your beau is military, which I am sure gave him further incentive to steer clear of you.”

“Oh, because she doesn’t ‘belong’ to a man that means it’s okay for him to do whatever he wants? What kind of fu-,” you catch yourself before you break Flannery’s vulgarity rule, but she doesn’t seem too offended by your previous effrontery. Taking a deep breath to attempt to lower your heart rate, you state more than ask: “You’re not going to do anything?” 

“If they did not take action when I sent report of my own harassment, I know they will not do a thing for the women in my charge.”

Silence drifts heavily between you as her words settle in the air.

You can’t help a blank stare as she pinches the bridge of her nose. She suddenly looks less like a grumpy old lady and more like a much younger woman with a heavy weight on her shoulders. Some of her past actions and words shift into focus to create a softer Miriam Flannery than you’d ever pictured.

An exhale breaks the tension followed by: “All I can do is keep an eye on him, try to make her unreachable, and hope he gets bored of the chase.”

“And I’m just supposed to sit and watch it happen?” Most of the fight had gone out of you, desolation settling in its vacant spot.

“Not at all. Be there for her; show her that she is not alone. I have a notion you know how to defend yourself - teach her a thing or two. The game I play with upper management is more nuanced than you think, but if Marjorie wants to move forward with a report against him, I will push it as far as I can. But it needs to be her decision. I am sorry. I truly wish there was more I could do.”

“I do understand, but I’m not happy about it.”

A ghost of a smile crosses her face. “I didn’t expect you to be.”

The rest of your day is spent watching Anderson like a hawk. Several times when he’s found his way to Marjorie’s desk, you interrupt with an urgent revision needed on a memo, a pile of letters that needed his signature to be able to be sent out by the end of the day, and a phone call that may or may not have originated from Suzy’s desk.

After the phone call had been dropped the stout man dodders to your desk, obviously in a huff. He round face is beet red, a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. You stand to your full height, towering over him in your heels, which only seems to irritate him further.

“Clara, in all my years I’ve never- this has been- you-”

“I’m sorry Mr. Anderson, is there something I’ve done to upset you?”

His mouth opens and shuts several times before it clicks closed. He doesn’t have an answer for you. He can’t have one, not without admitting to his motives. Trudging back to his office, you catch the tail end of a muttered comment comparing you to his wife.

The rush of victory sours in your mouth at the realization that it was day one of a long battle.

You try to leave the day behind but Marjorie’s stricken expression follows you every step toward Bucky and Steve’s apartment, despite the crunch of leaves beneath your feet.

Bucky answers the door with a “Hey there, sweetheart,” and you do your best to greet him with an equal amount of enthusiasm. You relax a fraction as his arms around you give a firm squeeze; press your face into his chest. Inhale deeply. Faint traces of motor oil, spicy aftershave, and a whiff of whatever is cooking in the kitchen combine to assuage your nerves.

You maintain your hold on him when he relaxes to pull away and you can feel his muscles tense. “You okay?”

A simple nod against his shirt is all the response you can muster. His large hand moves up from your shoulder to the back of your head, blunt fingernails gently scratching your scalp.

“Oh,” you whimper appreciatively, drawing a chuckle out of Bucky. 

He drops a kiss to the crown of your head before loosening his arms again. “Get comfy, dinner’s almost done.”

He leaves you in the hallway to you toe off your shoes. Curling and uncurling your toes, you savor in the relief of being flat on your feet again. One, two, three rolls of your tightly-wound neck and you join him at the stove while he dishes up the meal.

Bucky bumps a hip into your own, cocking his head when you turn to him. “You need to talk about something?”

“No, no, just work stuff. Tell me about your day!”

Looking thoroughly unconvinced Bucky proceeds to share his story of bonding with another mechanic over their respective companies crossing paths during the summer of 1943. You catch the main gist and make the appropriate approving and sympathetic noises to accompany his story.

The delicious meal dwindles on your plate and you’ve been reduced to pushing the vegetables around with your fork, mind drifting to other things. You finally hear a silence and glance up at Bucky, who chews while fixing you with a thoughtful, cobalt look.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You’re not sure if it’s the timbre of his voice, the look on his face, or the culmination of a long day, but the dam of emotion starts to crack. Placing your elbows on the table, you lean your face into your hands, fighting to keep the tears from falling. “Work was really tough today.”

“Baby, are you crying?” The alarm in his voice makes you feel even worse for losing your composure.

Tearfully, you lie, “No.”

Bucky’s chair scrapes against the floor and you feel him kneel next to you before his hand lands on your back. “What happened?”

“Anderson - he’s just the worst - and I feel so helpless -”

Calloused fingers pull one hand away from your face, revealing your tear-stained cheeks. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

Complying, you meet his icy blue gaze. You’re startled silent by the murderous expression overtaking his features.

“What’d he do? Did he touch you? Talk to you, even look at you wrong?” You shake your head but can’t speak around the lump in your throat. “I knew it. I’m gonna kill him.”

“Who’re we killing?” Steve walks in, taking a casual sip of coffee. He leans a shoulder into the door jam, but his eyes are sharp.

You wave your hands in the air before wiping at your damp face. “Nobody is killing anyone.”

“We are if-”

“He didn’t.”

While his shoulders sag in relief, Bucky doesn’t back down. “What’s got you so upset then?”

“It wasn’t me, it was Marjorie. Anderson. . . he. . . he did what I suspected of him all along.” Steve curses under his breath and Bucky’s hand stills on your back. “And there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s nothing any of us can do about it.”

“Flannery can’t report it?”

“She could, but Marjorie won’t even talk about it because she’s afraid of losing her job, which apparently is a possibility. It’s not right,” you sniff.

“No, it’s not,” Steve agrees sadly. “You’d be surprised how many wandering hands Peggy has broken. Or maybe you wouldn’t be.”

“It bothers me that I can’t protect her, or anyone else there.”

Bucky sighs. “I’m sorry it’s got you down.”

“Today was emotionally exhausting and my workload has been increasing. And now. . . I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“Then why keep doing it?” Steve asks. It’s not until you make eye contact with him that you realize the question wasn’t rhetorical.

“I. . .” You search for a response to the blunt inquiry. “I fought hard for this position. I thought this work would be fulfilling, easier - that I’d be respected a little more. And I love the girls I work with. But . . .”

Bucky smooths stubborn hair away from your face. “I hate seeing you like this.” 

“I’m sorry,” you turn your eyes downward, feelings of self loathing threatening to creep in.

“Hey, you don’t have a thing to be sorry for, doll.”

“Enough about me.” You turn attention to the blond hovering in the kitchen doorway. “How’re you, Steve?”

“I’m actually doing pretty well,” Steve grins uncharacteristically wide. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Yeaaaaah.” You slant eyes to Bucky, who is only smiling at his friend who is pulling a chair over to sit next to you. 

Steve fishes around in his pocket and produces a small box, one which carries its own significance.

“Oh my gosh,” you gasp, flipping the lid open. “Steve. . .” you breathe. “This is exquisite.”

Perched perfectly within sat a beautiful ring with a band of gold. A cut ruby lay in the middle of the setting, surrounded by a circle of small diamonds. It wasn’t flashy or bold, but definitely attention-grabbing. Unique, special - very Peggy Carter.

“It’ll make a real nice mark when a guy gets a left hook to the face, too,” Bucky remarks.

“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about that,” chuckles a sheepish Steve.

You raise an eyebrow in his direction. “I’m assuming she knows it’s coming?”

“Oh yeah, we’ve been talking about it for a while and agree the timing’s right.”

“How long of an engagement?”

“Just enough time to get word to her parents so they can make arrangements to travel from England. Probably a month or so. She won’t wear the ring to the office until we’re married so any higher ups won’t be able to make a public event out of it. We’re keeping it quiet, nothing fancy.”

Bucky hums. “What’s the guest list looking like? Are we gonna make the cut?”

“Shut up, moron. You two, the rest of the Barnes family, the team, Peggy’s parents, a handful of her close friends. Plus the Jarvises and Howard. But we aren’t telling Howard, Jarvis will inform him of his destination only when he’s escorting him inside the church. We don’t trust him to keep his mouth shut.”

“That’s fair,” Bucky muses. “Otherwise every gossip rag in the country will show up.”

“Congratulations, Steve. She’s going to love this. I’m thrilled you two are getting married.”

“Thank you.” His focus shifts to the ring you’ve handed back, cheeks tinted pink. “But she’s gotta say yes first.”

You and Bucky respond at the same time:

“Steve, of course she’ll say yes!”

“Better hedge your bets, pal.”

Scolding him for his laughter, you slap Bucky on the shoulder before reassuring Steve he had nothing to worry about.

In only a few short days, Peggy becomes his fiance.

You don’t know how you’re going to break the news to Connie.


End file.
